


If Love Be Rough

by openmouthwideeye



Category: Still Star-Crossed (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2018-12-26 02:32:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12049482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openmouthwideeye/pseuds/openmouthwideeye
Summary: A phone number scrawled on a bathroom wall. A painful breakup. A sorority and fraternity, both alike in dignity...Rosaline Capulet unleashes her frustrations on a stranger, never imagining she'd hear from him again. Meanwhile, her sister is looking for love, her cousin finds it in all the wrong places, and Rosaline would count it a blessing if she never saw Benvolio Montague again.





	1. Autumn

**Author's Note:**

> I really shouldn't be doing this to myself, but Rosvolio continues to tug at my heartstrings, so here we are. If you enjoy lady friendships and classic rom com tropes a la "You've Got Mail", then this fic might tickle your fancy. 
> 
> Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine (but if you'd like to offer your services - or just chat about SSC! - my tumblr askbox is always open)

**September**

 

“Well, that’s the last of it,” Silvestro Capulet said, patting his daughter’s floral duvet with a restrained sort of melancholy.

Rosaline wiped her forehead. He hadn’t done a bit of heavy lifting—his back, he’d murmured, fingers ghosting over the afflicted area—but he had helped, after a fashion.

“Do you suppose they’ll be back soon?” he asked, looking around as if the question might make his daughter materialize.

Years of groundings kept her from rolling her eyes. Juliet had disappeared almost immediately, gallivanting around campus in some sort of roommate bonding ritual. Her mother had lasted a while longer, buoyed by the task of bossing them around, before she, too, disappeared to “see what they’ve done with the place.”

“I wouldn’t count on it.”

“Ah.” Her uncle looked around the tiny room, rubbing his hands on his trousers. “Well, this is goodbye then.” He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. “We’ll see you for Christmas, Rosaline. Tell Livia. She’s invited, too.”

She forced a smile. “I’ll tell Juliet you said goodbye.”

He looked surprised. “Good. Thank you. And she’s welcome home anytime. She knows that.” Nodding to himself, he strode out of the room.

“And goodbye to you too,” Rosaline muttered.

She lay across the bed, fingers ruffling the lace accents that were so perfectly Juliet. The popcorn ceiling glittered faintly, like the nail polish her mom had splurged on for Livia’s first day of middle school. How many girls had made their mark upon this tiny room in Capulet House? Had her aunt? Her mother?

“Rosaline?”

Her heart leapt in her chest. Pushing off the bed, she paused to take in warm eyes, full lips, the crisp collar that emphasized his jaw before she threw herself into her boyfriend’s arms.

“When did you get home?” she asked, voice muffled against his neck.

Escalus smiled into her shoulder. “Last week. I’m president of the chapter now, remember? I have a lot of important duties to accomplish before the freshmen arrive.”

She pulled away, eyes narrowed playfully. Mostly. “You’ve been in Verona for an entire week and you didn’t call me?”

“Of course.” He smiled that smile that always made her heart race, even when they were kids. “You think I would have gotten anything done with you distracting me?”

He kissed her, driving the point home. Rosaline melted into him, groaning when he finally broke the embrace.

“Rosaline . . .” He sighed, running his hands down her arms. “Ros, I’ve been meaning to talk to you—”

Balancing on her toes, she brushed her lips against his. “Hmm?”

“I—I’ve been talking with my brothers and—and I—”

“Yes?” she teased, smiling against his mouth.

“—Nevermind.”

“That’s what I thought.” He’d talk about business all day if she let him. She wanted to talk to _him,_ not the politician he became around fathers and frat buddies. Dropping her heels to the floor, she laced their fingers together. “Want to come over? I haven’t eaten all day.”

“Now that you mention it,” he murmured, eyes on her lips, “I’m famished.”

 

* * *

  

 

* * *

 **October**  

 

**_Tense? Studying is overrated. I’m not._ **

The rough scrawl stood out jarringly against the faux mahogany bathroom stall, marring the casual opulence of the Isabetta Prince Memorial Library. The acrid scent of gold sharpie lingered in the air as if to choke her.

Teeth clenched, Rosaline punched the numbers into her keyboard. She hit send before she could think better of it, then stared at her phone, foot tapping angrily.

 

 

Huffing, Rosaline pushed off the wall and paced a tiny circle in the cramped stall. Nerves and anger churned in her blood, drowning out more painful emotions. She fell back against the door and glared at her phone.

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/36329201913/in/dateposted-public/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/37000665191/in/dateposted-public/)

 

Unlocking the stall, Rosaline paused in front of the mirror. Her eyes were red, but the tears had fled, and her dark skin concealed the flush that stained her cheeks. She washed her hands, letting the familiar motion soothe her frayed emotions. Scrubbing her cheeks, she flung the remnants of Escalus’ betrayal down the sink and firmly shut off the tap.

Her eyes drifted to her phone as it lit up in quick succession.

 

 

That gave her pause. It wasn’t that she believed him—men were untrustworthy, no matter how many times they found the right words—but he seemed pretty upset for a guy who’d asked for this. It wasn’t like she could actually tell his girlfriend.

Drying her hands, she mentally calculated how quickly she could collect her things and escape to her apartment.

 

 

Swiping back to her messages app, Rosaline deleted the entire thread. Her ex’s quickly followed.

 

* * *

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/36329199693/in/dateposted-public/)

 

* * *

 

“I can’t believe you texted a total stranger out of nowhere.”

Rosaline nudged her sister’s elbows off the shoe rental counter. “It wasn’t out of _nowhere._ He left his number right there on the stall.”

Livia let her make a few haphazard swipes with the rag, then hopped up onto the counter, planting her ass firmly where her elbows had been. She leaned back on her hands, watching her sister work.

“I’m just saying,” she went on, “that apart from defacing school property, you really don’t have a moral leg to stand on. I mean, he was upfront about his motives.”

“Which justifies invading private spaces to hit on strangers?”

Her sister rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Rosaline frowned, studying a stain beneath the thick layer of varnish. “And he wasn’t. Sincere, I mean. Or at least . . . ” She huffed, leaning across the counter to attack a smear of dried nacho cheese. “He _claims_ he didn’t write it.”

“Do you believe him?”

She faltered. “No. Yes. I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe.”

Reaching out, Livia squeezed her hand. “I’m glad.”

Rosaline renewed her scrubbing vigorously, and a fleck of cheese skittered across the counter and onto the floor. If only she could dislodge her feelings that easily.

“Now,” her sister said brightly, pulling a knee onto the counter to face her, “if you’d channel your passion for telling off strangers into landing an internship, I could stop nagging you. Have you submitted a single application?”

Rosaline leaned her hip against the counter and sighed in exasperation. No matter how many times they hashed out the impracticalities of unpaid labor, Livia would not be swayed.

“Uncle Silv would hook you up at Capulet Holdings if you asked.”

“If _Juliet_ asked,” Rosaline corrected. “And I’d be stuck facilitating mergers until the day I die. Besides, which classes do you suggest I drop? If I’m going to walk next December, I need at least 19 credits this semester.”

“You could quit the alley. You hate it here anyway.”

“Yes, and we could quit eating too,” she retorted, flicking her sister with the rag.

Livia evaded the half hearted attack, snatching the weapon from her sister’s hands. Shaking off stray crumbs, she folded it into neat squares. “I can pick up extra shifts, Rosaline. They love me at the shelter.”

“Because they don’t have to pay the vet when you’re there.” Rosaline nudged her sister off the counter, stealing the rag back while Livia was distracted. Her sister didn't notice.

“That’s him! How do I look?”

“As if that’s even a valid question.”

Leaning over the counter, Rosaline peered around the corner. Aside from a girl on a double date—in that she appeared to be dating two men—the only person walking into the bowling alley was a chubby neckbeard in a short-sleeved plaid shirt.

“Livia,” she said, aghast, “you swiped right on that guy?”

“What?” her sister said defensively. “You never know, he could be the future Mr. Livia Capulet. And you haven’t been on a single date since Escalus, so you have no right to judge.”

Rosaline stiffened, and Livia’s smile faded.

“Oh Rosaline, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Are you Livia?” neckbeard interrupted, eying her like he wasn’t quite sure. “You’re much prettier in person.”

Livia took it as a compliment, as Rosaline knew she would.

“Thank you,” she said sweetly.

“Size ten, thanks,” the guy announced, still eyeing Livia.

Rosaline shot her sister a look, and Livia sent one right back.

“Did you hear me? I need a size ten. And for the lady—oh, you’ve got yours.”

Livia knocked her heels together, laughing a little awkwardly. “All laced up and ready to roll.”

Neckbeard gave a short, startled laugh. “You’re funny. I didn’t expect you to be funny.”

Rosaline slapped the shoes onto the counter. He grabbed them blindly, gesturing toward the lanes with a thumb. “Which one do you want, then?”

Livia cleared her throat. “Oh, um . . . we haven’t paid.”

“Paid. Right.” He looked around, slapping his pockets as if he wasn’t sure where he’d left his wallet. Livia bobbed on the balls of her feet, eyeing the little cubby behind the counter where she’d stowed her purse.

“It’s fine,” Rosaline said quickly. Neckbeard started, then looked at her appraisingly. She put on her best customer service smile. “You can pay when you turn in the shoes.”

“Oh. That’s fine, I guess. Livia?”

Rosaline watched them go. Her manager bustled over, as she always did when Livia had a date.

“Your sister’s too sweet for the likes of him.”

“Try telling her that.”

A snort. “That’d do as much good as her telling you to quit.” Nan paused, chewing her lip. “Would you hate me if I sent you home? With the game tonight, business will be slow.”

Rosaline sighed, dropping the rag. Her eyes drifted to her sister, celebrating her first strike of the night. Her date didn’t look particularly happy about it.

“I’ll keep an eye on her for you.”

She gave her boss a pleading look.

“Oh, all right,” Nan relented. “You’d just sit at the bar, wouldn’t you?” Snatching the rag, she shooed Rosaline from the counter. “Make yourself useful, will you? A group of frat boys came in earlier and spilled beer all over lane 16. I haven’t had a chance to clean it up.”

Livia and neckbeard had taken lane 14.

Rosaline grinned. Her job may suck, but her manager had her back when she could.

She ducked under the counter. “Don’t let him leave without paying. Three games and a drink, or when Livia comes to her senses—whichever comes first.”

 

* * *

**November**

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/36745370740/in/dateposted-public/)

 

* * *

 

“Come on, Jules, work with me,” Rosaline begged.

Her cousin did nothing of the sort, sinking into Rosaline’s side so she could watch a flock of drunken idiots migrate across the quad. Rosaline’s knees buckled. She collided with the railing, struggling to keep them upright. The icy wrought iron fleur-de-lis burned through the loose weave of her sweater dress, reminding her yet again that she’d forgotten her jacket.

“No, but Rose—Rose—Rosaline. If only you’d _met_ him, you’d understand.”

“The guy who got you smashed while you thrashed him at beer pong? Yeah, be grateful I didn’t.”

Juliet leaned into her shoulder, pouting. With who-knew-how-many drinks in her, her chin felt like a blunted dagger. Rosaline took a determined step, all but dragging her cousin up another stair.

“Need some help?” someone called.

Her grip on Juliet tightened. Revelers still crowded Greek row, and the girls were haloed in the glow of the porch, but you could never be too careful.

She raised her voice, trying to exude confidence. “We’re fine, thanks.”

“You don’t look fine.” His voice was closer now, tinged with amusement.

“Well, we are. So take that white knight schtick and go pester someone else.” She punctuated her words with a pointed look over her shoulder. Her stomach lurched. He was closer than she’d thought, eyes bright and concerned. 

Taken aback, she unbalanced, teetering backward under her cousin’s weight. He rushed forward to catch her, framing her waist with hands as cold as frost—or a frat boy standing outside in sub-freezing temperatures, waiting for girls to prey on.

“Steady.” He pushed her upright, grinning a little as she scowled and jerked free.

“Who are you talking to?” Juliet tried to peer around her, but Rosaline checked her firmly, keeping herself between her cousin and any trouble.

The guy retreated, hands raised placatingly. “You don’t want my help? Fine. I’m not going to freeze my ass off arguing about it. I’m just saying, it looks like you have your hands full.”

“And you _won’t,”_ she retorted, tugging Juliet onto the next step. Her cousin overbalanced and sat abruptly, pulling her into an awkward crouch on the stairs.

“You think—? That’s what—?” He huffed, irritated, as if questioning his motives weren’t the rational thing to do. “I’m not going to take advantage of you. She needs help, and she’s clearly not getting it from you.” She opened her mouth to argue, but he cut her off. “At least if she wants to make it inside before hypothermia sets in.”

“It’s cold,” her cousin whined, spurred on by his comment. Then, hopefully, “Can we go back to the party?”

Rosaline ground her teeth. If Livia hadn’t ditched them tonight, she’d have another set of hands. If Juliet’s sorority sisters hadn’t encouraged her little tête-à-tête with the mysterious moron, she wouldn’t need help to begin with. If Aunt Giuliana hadn’t brainwashed her with all that family legacy nonsense . . .

Which left Rosaline with the dead weight of her cousin on the front steps of Capulet House and no way to get inside.

“Fine.”

Juliet brightened, but Rosaline’s attention was on the stranger on the street. Tall and skinny—and clearly trying too hard with that snug leather jacket—he looked fit, but not dangerously so. She might be able to take him if it came down to it.

“Thank you for your help.”

“Don’t sound so thrilled about it.” But he was already scooping up her cousin and ascending the stairs. Juliet threw back her head so her hair dangled over his arm, murmuring something about “love’s wings” as she gazed at the stars. For a second the guy looked like he was seriously reconsidering his offer to help.

Rosaline snorted, fishing Juliet’s key from her purse. “Don’t worry, she’s not talking about you.”

Relief stole across his face, but his eyes spoke of longsuffering. “I think I overlooked Bad Poetry 101 during registration. A lot of people seem to have aced ‘Midnight Recitations’.”

“If purple prose isn’t your thing, you picked the wrong girl to white knight. This one raised herself on Gothic romances and old Meg Ryan movies.”

She led him into the house, flicking on lights as she went. The sound of rustling pages broke this stillness. Peering into the living room, she found a girl flipping through a battered textbook, a look of consternation on her face. Rosaline waved to get her attention, relieved to find someone else around. Most of Juliet’s sisters were celebrating the end of finals by getting as drunk as Juliet, while the others slept off all-nighters, dead to the world.

“We’ll be back in a minute,” Rosaline announced, waiting for the girl’s nod before leading Juliet and her white knight down the hall. Her cousin closed her eyes, humming “Take Me to Church” under her breath.

The guy groaned. “This again?”

“Don’t tell me you’re some kind of music snob.” She’d hoped his leather jacket was some strange relic of the past, not a lifestyle choice.

As if to defend her tastes, Juliet started singing. “Everybody’s disapproval, should’ve worshipped her sooner.”

He winced, driving back his shoulders like he could somehow escape the girl in his arms. “I used to like this song.”

Rosaline paused by Juliet’s room, waiting. When the story wasn’t forthcoming, she pursed her lips, annoyed by her curiosity. “Until?”

He stopped beside her, resituating Juliet in his arms. His smile invited her to share in his misery. “Until my cousin. He fell in love all of four hours ago, and I haven’t heard the end of it since. Nevermind that he was waxing poetic about another girl this afternoon.”

“A solid basis for a relationship,” she snarked, but it was Escalus she saw in her mind’s eye, simmering with resentment as some frat boy chatted her up.

“At least tonight’s fixation flirted back. That’s progress.”

A smile tugged the corner of her lips. She stifled it, watching his eyes twinkle at coaxing a reaction from her.

“Come on, before you drop her.” She cleared her throat, gave a perfunctory knock in case Juliet’s roommate was home, and pushed into the room. He waited for her to turn down the covers and set her cousin on the bed. Rosaline tugged off Juliet’s jacket and unbuckled her shoes, kicking them aside before tucking her in, ignoring Juliet's halfhearted protests. The handsome stranger—and he _was_ handsome, she couldn’t deny it—shifted awkwardly, clearly unsure about the protocol of the situation.

For that matter, so was Rosaline. “Well then, I guess . . .”

“She needs water,” he said suddenly, “or she’ll be puking all night.” Making a beeline for the bathroom, he snagged a pink solo cup from the stack on the counter. She watched carefully as he ran the tap, then accepted the cup from him, sitting beside Juliet to coax her cousin into a sitting position.

“What do names even matter?” Juliet said, apropos of nothing. Flinging an arm over her eyes, she sunk back into the pillows, resisting her cousin’s ministrations. “If I called a Rose a Lily, she’d be just as prickly.”

Rosaline rolled her eyes. Bad poetry, indeed. “And a clouded Jule has the same obnoxious sparkle as a sober one, if a little less sense.”

“If your friend and my cousin ever met," the guy piped up, "Shakespeare might roll over in his grave.”

She couldn't help but laugh at the affronted look on Juliet’s face. “Drunk on love and PBR? There’s a sonnet in there somewhere.”

He took a dramatic step backward. “And that’s my cue to exit stage left. If I never hear a sonnet again, it’ll be too soon.”

Juliet huffed and gazed out the window, adoring the stars, tucked safely in her bed.

Impulsively, Rosaline reached out and caught his sleeve. The leather was thick and soft, still cool from the night air. “Before you go, I just—”

Her pinky tingled with heat, pressed against the inside of his wrist. Swallowing, she worked up a smile. “Thank you. Honestly. It’s nice to know that kind people still exist.”

“Kind, huh?” His crooked grin was entirely too self-satisfied, but he tamped it down to give her another sort of smile. “I can’t just ignore a pretty girl in need.”

Rosaline's stomach flipped. Her lips parted, but she had no words.

He realized what he’d said a second after she did, stepping back and scrubbing his hands on his jeans.

“Witty girl,” he corrected as if she might actually buy it. “I can’t ignore a _witty_ girl in need.”

She flushed. “Yes, well,” she said briskly, smoothing a fold in her dress.

Behind them, Juliet sighed sweetly. “See, Rosaline? Who cares about Montagues and Capulets? Destiny dances in the air tonight.”

“I’m sorry, did she say Rosaline? As in Rosaline Capulet?”

“Yes?” She crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow. “And you are?”

But he was too busy shaking his head to answer. “First Romeo, and now this.”

Juliet sat up so quickly that her elbow knocked the cup out of Rosaline’s hand. It drenched the bedspread, but Juliet hardly noticed. “Romeo? You know my Romeo?”

“Romeo _Montague?”_ Rosaline couldn’t keep the disdain from her voice.

“Yes,” he said, voice oddly tight.

“Are you his brother at Montague House?” Juliet asked eagerly.

“His cousin, actually.”

Juliet untangled herself from the blanket and leaned forward, holding onto Rosaline for balance. “You’re a _Montague?”_ they exclaimed in entirely different tones.

Rosaline met his eyes, and something indefinable flickered and went dark, leaving a haze of blue and green like the sea buffeted by a hurricane.

“Benvolio Montague.” He gave a mocking bow. “Rumors of your temperament have been greatly exaggerated, _Rose.”_

Romeo. Damn that starry-eyed idiot. Extricating herself from Juliet, Rosaline stood, unbent by the storm in his eyes.

“Out, Montague.”

“Gladly, Capulet.”

“Rosaline—” Juliet protested, but he was already gone.


	2. early winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who read, commented on, & shared the first chapter of this fic. I'm blown away by the response! Seriously, this fandom is the sweetest. 
> 
> This fic was supposed to be all seasonal and organized, but winter got a bit unwieldy, so I split it in half. I'll be traveling next weekend, so no guarantees on when I'll finish ch. 3, but it is partway done already, so feel free to make a few sacrifices to the muses on my behalf.

  **December**

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/37271224655/in/album-72157686742354084/)

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/36456607403/in/album-72157686742354084/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/37271224765/in/album-72157686742354084/)

 

* * *

 

“Come now, Giuliana.” Silvestro made as if to catch his wife by the elbow, then caught himself instead. He inclined his head at Rosaline, a patron bestowing his favor. “If our niece needs a foot in the door, we will, of course, be happy to oblige.”

Her aunt made a poor attempt at a smile, conscious of Verona’s finest milling around them. “I do wish you’d joined a sorority, Rosaline. Capulet House wouldn’t have accepted you on your own merits, of course, but you are a Capulet. That might have counted for something.”

“Why on earth would I do that?” she asked as politely as she could manage, which wasn’t saying much. Her uncle shifted, not quite sure whether he should be offended on his wife’s behalf.

Aunt Giuliana raised her chin, smile thin. “Why, so you wouldn’t have to fall on your family for handouts.”

Affront jerked her spine like marionette strings. Years of making herself useful, taking on chores and working part time—not to mention keeping her cousin out of trouble—and Giuliana Capulet still treated her and Livia like refugees determined to undermine her entire system of governance.

A slim arm slipped around Rosaline’s waist, while another pressed a drink into her hand. She grit her teeth, just managing not to go for her aunt with her nails. Make a scene at Cosimo Prince’s annual holiday party, and Uncle Silv would cut her off no matter how much Juliet begged.

Plastering on a smile, she turned, expecting Livia—or maybe Juliet. Isabella Prince smiled back. Squeezing her waist in a quick greeting, she turned a polite smile on Mr. and Mrs. Capulet.

“Giuliana, Silvestro, it’s been ages. I trust all is well at Capulet Holdings?” With a practiced, faintly embarrassed laugh that gave them no chance to respond, she continued, “Excuse the interruption, but I haven’t seen Rosaline yet. You know she’s always been my dearest friend.”

Uncle Silvestro shook himself. “Yes, you girls always did get on.”

Aunt Giuliana’s smile lost some of its strained quality. “Isabella. It’s wonderful to see you back in Verona. How is your father? I’ve been meaning to talk to him about—”

“Giuliana,” her husband interrupted. “Enough talk about business. This is a party.” He turned a smile on Isabella, ignoring his own instruction. “Is your father running for office again?”

Rosaline swigged her champagne, wincing as the bubbles fizzed in her nose.

“Oh, yes. That’s why he couldn’t make it tonight.” Regret touched Isabella’s smile. “He hates missing a chance to hear from his constituents, but you know how the holidays are.”

“Yes. Busy. Always busy.”

“I could pass along your regards, if you’d like?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Giuliana broke in. “I’m sure we’ll catch him at the New Year’s gala. Ah,” she made a show of glancing past the girls, “Paris and I have business to discuss. If you’ll excuse me?”

She swept away without waiting for a response.

“Lovely to see you, Isabella,” said Silvestro with a brief, distracted smile. “Rosaline, we’ll talk later.” And then he, too, was gone.

Isabella waited until he melted into the crowd to roll her eyes. “If I reach your aunt’s age and show even a modicum of that much interest in my college years, I give you full license to stage an intervention.”

Grinning sideways, she slipped her other arm around Rosaline, hugging her tight.

Rosaline raised her chin to avoid a mouthful of hair. “You never joined a chapter, so there won’t be anything worth reliving.”

Isabella laughed, releasing her. Nerves bubbled up with the champagne in Rosaline’s stomach, bursting between her ribs. Their message thread had been collecting cobwebs ever since—

“What are you doing here?” she asked. “I thought you were spending another semester abroad.”

Isabella’s smile became secretive. “I was offered an internship with a prestigious firm, so our plans had to be adapted.”

_Our._

Rosaline stiffened, scanning the room. When her search came up empty, the tightness in her chest dissipated. Strange, how entirely her reactions had changed.

“He’s not here.”

She clutched her champagne, glancing around the room again to make sure. “Isabella—”

“I won’t mention him if you don’t,” Isabella cut in lightly. Taking in Rosaline’s stricken expression, she softened. “I’m sorry about what happened, Rosaline. Honestly, I am. But he’s my brother and you’re my best friend. I’m willing to be Switzerland, but _you_ have to agree to a verbal cease-fire.” She paused, tensing as a thought occurred to her. “We are still friends, aren’t we?”

Rosaline swirled her drink, watching bubbles cling to the glass. Isabella wore a familiar expression. It was etched in Rosaline’s mind all these years later: nervous energy eroding her carefully cultivated poise as she confessed that, even if Livia wound up liking her back, best friends came first.

Rosaline squeezed her arm. “Of course we’re still friends.”

Isabella’s smile bloomed. “Good. Then there’s someone I want you to meet.”

 

* * *

 

**January**

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/37271224605/in/album-72157686742354084/)

 

* * *

 

It took several swipes for the card reader to accept her student ID. She should’ve gotten a new one—they were only $20—but her aunt and uncle helped with tuition, not living expenses, and she had other priorities. Like buying coffee when her sister forgot a lab report for her 8 am.

“Hold the door!”

Rosaline wedged her heel into the door jam, barely catching the faint, “thanks,” as a bundle of blonde curls and oversized sweater brushed past her and scurried down the hall. Glancing at the clock, Rosaline grimaced. It really was Livia’s fault if the professor docked points for a late assignment.

Distantly, an elevator dinged. With a fortifying sip of coffee, she made a dash, careening around the corner to slide between the doors just as they closed.

“Rosaline?”

_Fuck._

Her finger mashed the open door button, but the elevator lurched upward, trapping her with her ex-boyfriend. She took a gulp of coffee so she wouldn’t be tempted to throw it, heedless of how it scalded her throat.

Escalus shifted from foot to foot, working up to the perfect opener.

“I thought you’d finished your Gen Eds,” she croaked, hoping to derail whatever thought had put that hopeful look on his face. “Isn’t it a little late for intro level sciences?”

“Yes,” he said vaguely, “I have a meeting.” She shouldn’t have been surprised that he barely seemed to hear her, stuck on some predetermined path, but a part of her still was.

“It’s good to see you, Ros. I’ve been hoping we might catch up, talk about—” He caught himself, taking a deep breath. “How have you been?”

The lid popped off her coffee, and she realized how tightly she’d been holding it. Loosening her grip, she smiled so widely that her teeth stung in the chilly elevator air. “Great. Fantastic, in fact. And you?”

“I—” He paused, taken aback by her suddenly sunny disposition. “Good. I’ve been shadowing Dad at the office, and meeting with fraternity alumni has really opened up—” He caught the expression on her face and hastily redirected. “And Isabella’s back from Venice. She’s really taken to this internship. She seems . . . happy. Settled. I think her girlfriend might transfer to Verona officially.”

“I ran into them at your father’s Christmas party.”

Escalus nodded. “I’d hoped to see you there, but father had business out of town, and my sister thought it would be best if—”

“And how is your father?” she cut in, eyes fixed on the doors as they climbed past the third floor and then the fourth. The ground shuddered, and the elevator stopped abruptly—along with her heart.

Looking around wildly, she found Escalus with his hand on the emergency switch.

“Rosaline, please,” he said softly. “We used to be friends, before all this. Can’t we talk like that again? About things that matter?”

Shoving his hand away, she jammed off the switch, shouldering between him and the panel.

He touched her elbow. “Rosaline—”

“Things that matter,” she said tightly, shaking him off. “Of course.” Her stomach bottomed out as the elevator finally, blessedly leveled off at the fifth floor. “And how is life at Verona’s most elite fraternity?” She crowded the door, boots edging into the widening gap until it was big enough to escape through.

“Rosaline, wait.” His fingers skimmed her jacket, but she kept walking. He followed, letting the elevator close behind him. “Please, if you’d just let me explain . . .”

“Explain?” She scoffed. “Explanations have never been the problem; it’s the follow-through that gives you trouble.”

“That’s hardly fair—”

Turning to walk backward, she waved the report like a white flag. “I’m late, okay? I have to get this to Livia.”

“I’ll wait for you.” Desperation laced his words, and suddenly her boots felt heavy, dragging her away from him. Clearing his throat, he smoothed his tone. “We’re both adults. We can talk about this like rational people.”

She turned swiftly, fighting the lump in her throat. That would be a brilliant end to their relationship, crying over Escalus while he stalked her down the hall. “What’s left to talk about? Your fraternity was more important than our relationship.”

“You know it was never about the frat. Rosaline, I’m laying the foundation for a career. A future. One I’d hoped to share with you.” He caught her arm, and somehow her feet weren’t moving anymore. His thumb traced a familiar, soothing pattern through her jacket. “I know you’re angry. I hurt you, I know that. But, Ros, I’ve loved you since you told off my dad for missing my sixteenth birthday. Don’t we owe it to ourselves to try again?”

She remembered it so vividly she could taste it, heart beating almost painfully as he pressed her against his new car, soft and eager and just as fumbling as she, until at last he’d broken the kiss, eyes wide with revelation.

She jerked away, afraid that if she didn’t, she’d spend the morning curled beside him on his couch, and tomorrow waiting there alone. The dregs of her coffee sloshed onto her glove, sticky and lukewarm. Grimacing, she detoured down another hall and chucked her morning splurge into the trash, steeling herself for what had to be done.

“Look, Escalus, I’m not angry anymore. I _was.”_ She cut off his protests with a mirthless laugh. “You treated me like a commodity, not a person. Not a person you _loved.”_

“But I _do_ love you, Rosaline.”

She met his eyes, big and brown and earnest. “That life you’re building? It’s not a life I want, Escalus. It hasn’t been for a long time.”

The wet glove clung to her skin, scratchy and clammy. Tugging it off, she shoved the ruined wool into her pocket and turned to go.

“Are you with someone?”

The question stopped her in her tracks.

“Is that it?” he asked, voice tightly controlled. “You’ve found someone new?”

Her boots squeaked as she spun. “Excuse me?”

He wavered for an instant in the face of her fury, then held his ground. “I just need to know if I—”

“If you what, Escalus? Stand a chance?” Uncertainty cracked his implacable mask, and guilt crashed together with satisfaction to twist her gut into knots. “The answer is no, and it’s no one’s fault but yours.”

“Rosaline—”

Spinning on her heel, she plowed headlong into something soft and solid. Hands caught her elbows, holding her steady as her heart struggled to find its footing. She wondered if she could somehow disappear into the cozy knit scarf that had so effectively silenced her ex. Pushing aside the nonsensical thought—along with the foolish impulse to channel her frustration into her palms and _shove—,_ Rosaline mustered the will to look up.

The Montague’s eyes were wide with concern—or surprise, more likely—but they hardened quickly enough when she wrenched free.

“Perfect. Exactly what I needed. Thank you, science gods, for this lovely morning.”

She stormed off before either of them could take a stab at her afternoon.

 

* * *

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/37271223695/in/album-72157686742354084/)

 

Rosaline squinted at her phone, willing the words to make sense. She’d only overindulged a little—Livia could be quite persuasive when she wanted to be—but between the alcohol and the hour, the message swam before her eyes.

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/37098662402/in/album-72157686742354084/)

 

Rosaline rolled over, propping her elbows on the pillow.

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/37271223825/in/album-72157686742354084/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/37098662482/in/album-72157686742354084/)

 

She groaned, dropping her face in the pillow to cool her heated skin. Was Double Entendres 420 a required course for guys?

 

<[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/37271224005/in/album-72157686742354084/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/37098662672/in/album-72157686742354084/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/37271224205/in/album-72157686742354084/)

 

Wedging her pillow against the wall, Rosaline and sat up, flicking on the lamp beside her bed. She flipped through her camera roll for flashes of gold, searching for a common thread.

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/37098662762/in/album-72157686742354084/)

 

She rolled her eyes. Whoever said sarcasm didn’t translate to text must have been blind. Or maybe she just spent too much time dealing with drunk college boys.

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/37271224495/in/album-72157686742354084/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/37098662872/in/album-72157686742354084/)

 

* * *

 

“I am a healthy person,” Rosaline panted. “I walk to class, I lug around bowling balls, I don’t binge drink or eat like a kindergartener. But my legs are about to commit a murder.” She cast a pleading look at Isabella, who’d graciously sacrificed speed for company when the Capulets had lagged behind her Amazonian girlfriend. “How much farther?”

“It’s just lactic acid,” said Livia, matching her stride for stride. “Your muscles are pitching a fit because you haven’t run since the fifth grade. Anyway, you’re doing better than Jules.”

Rosaline glanced behind her and found an empty road. She took full advantage of the excuse to stop. “Where is Jules? I’m only doing this because she insisted.”

Livia pulled up beside her, dabbing her shirt at the sheen of sweat on her forehead. “So much for sisterly solidarity.”

Isabella, who’d been jogging backward for the last quarter mile, ran back to them. “Juliet wasn’t with you when you caught up with me. I thought she’d gone home. If you want, I’ll run back and—”

“I’ll go!” Rosaline volunteered, ignoring the looks they exchanged at her expense. “She probably took a detour to the Globe.” The old bar was two blocks off campus, a favorite haunt of the Montague boys. And where Romeo went, Juliet usually led the charge.

“Probably,” Livia agreed. “But . . .”

“But I’ll let you know if she’s injured in a ditch somewhere.”

“Don’t forget to stretch!” Her companions called in near unison when she finally managed to escape.

Tossing a thumbs up over her shoulder, she retraced their steps at a more forgiving pace, shooting a quick text to Juliet as she ran. She passed Globe Tavern on her way home and ducked inside to scan the premises. She ducked out again just as quickly, before she could be spotted by Benvolio Montague or the bartender who’d just hopped over the counter to deposit herself in his lap.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/37098662962/in/album-72157686742354084/)

 

She hurried past the bowling alley, praying her manager wouldn’t see her and cut her weekend hours. She’d already sacrificed one shift that week, only to discover that not only was Uncle Silv’s internship unpaid, he expected her to clock 20 hours a week. She hoped Livia would forgive her when she heard how _that_ went down.

Rounding the block, she punched in her apartment code and jogged up to the fourth floor.

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/37271224925/in/album-72157686742354084/)

 

An idle threat, but one that usually worked. Maybe Juliet's phone had died. Rosaline pushed into her apartment . . .

. . . and stumbled back into the hall, yanking the door shut. Juliet yelped, and the sounds of frantic dressing drifted through the door.

“Um! You can come in!”

Rosaline counted to five before stepping inside to glare at her cousin.

“Hi, Rosaline,” she said, all mussed hair and flaming cheeks, “I, um, didn’t expect you home.”

“Clearly.”

Romeo stepped forward, giving Rosaline a disarming smile. Like that would erase the fact that he’d just been mostly naked on her couch.

“Hey, Rosaline, I don’t think we’ve met. Officially.” His smile turned a little sheepish, as if he’d suddenly remembered those weeks of quasi-stalking her around campus. Lacing his fingers through his girlfriend’s, he recovered his charm. “Juliet talks about you all the time.”

Rosaline leveled an unimpressed look at him before turning to her cousin. “Juliet, I made you that key in case you got into trouble, not so you could create it.”

“I’m sorry, I know I should have asked, but . . .” Juliet clasped her hands—and one of Romeo’s— together in supplication. “Please, Rose. I’m so sick of Globe Tavern. Mom and Dad don’t know, so I can’t bring Romeo home, and he’s not allowed in Capulet House.”

“Because he’s a _Montague.”_

“It’s just a stupid school rivalry.” But Juliet wouldn’t meet her eyes. That _stupid rivalry_ had a body count, and had ruined Rosaline’s life long before she’d enrolled at Verona University.

Her cousin neatly redirected the conversation. “Anyway, you’re my two favorite people in the world, and I’ve been dying for a chance to introduce you, so . . .” She tucked herself into Romeo’s side, smiling up at him. “Rosaline, this is Romeo.”

“Juliet,” Rosaline said reasonably. “This? Is crazy. Do you know what your parents will do when they find out?”

“I’ll tell them soon,” she insisted, burrowing closer to her boyfriend. “I just want to enjoy being young and in love. You know,” she added, “before our families try to ruin it for us.”

Rosaline crossed her arms, and Juliet raised her chin, unrepentant. Not that she was entirely wrong—their relationship was a disaster in the making, and Rosaline hadn’t been shy about saying so—but Juliet should know that her cousin only wanted what was best for her.

Setting aside memories of a reckless, relentless boy dancing around the shoe rental counter, Rosaline studied her cousin’s boyfriend. He’d grown taller, she realized, and broader. His eyes held the same telltale mischief, but his face had lost some of its boyishness. And he was currently folded around Juliet like he half expected Rosaline to shoot and fully intended to take the bullet.

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Your parents don’t know either?”

“It’s not a conversation I’m looking forward to,” Romeo admitted, feathering a kiss into Juliet’s hair, “but I’ll tell my them whenever my Jule is ready.”

Juliet met her cousin’s eyes, somehow managing to look both expectant and pleading.

Rosaline grimaced. “You owe me so big.”

Juliet’s grin was like the sun breaking the clouds. Untangling from her boyfriend, she bounded forward to wrap Rosaline in a hug. “Thank you! I have the best cousin.”

“You do,” she said pointedly, fighting a smile as her cousin rocked her this way and that. “And don’t think this means you can have sex on my furniture.”

Releasing her cousin, Juliet grinned up at her boyfriend. “See? I told you Rosaline would come through.”

The girl in question rolled her eyes. “I’m going to shower off this run you forced me into, unless there’s anything else—”

“Romeo!” called a muffled voice from the street. “Hey-oh, Romeo!”

A peek at the street revealed Benvolio Montague four stories down, wide smile as irritating as ever, arm slung around the blonde from the bar. The guy beside him added a colorful commentary to the mix, gesturing rudely around a handful of plastic bags.

Rosaline rounded on her cousin. “You invited more Montagues?”

“They offered to cook.”

“No. _No,_ Juliet,” she repeated, unmoved by the hopeful look in her cousin’s eyes. “I’m tired and sweaty and I have a stack of homework I haven’t even touched. What exactly was your plan for when Livia and I got home?”

Her cousin smiled awkwardly. “Fall on Livia’s mercy?”

The intercom buzzed. “Hellooooo? We’re freezing our asses off down here, and so is the beer!”

With a wary look at Rosaline, Romeo pressed the call button. “Standby, Mercutio. We might have a change of plans.”

Juliet clutched Rosaline’s arm. “Don’t make me beg, Rose. You know I’ll win you over sooner or later, and we’ll only have wasted everyone’s time.”

Rosaline’s eyes fell on the stack of homework on the coffee table. She didn’t have time for this. “Fine. You have two hours, and then I want them gone.”

Juliet squealed, throwing her arms around her cousin. When she pulled back, her nose wrinkled at the sweat sticking to her sweater.

 _Serves her right,_ Rosaline thought.

“Text Livia and make sure she’s okay with this.” They both knew she would be, but Juliet needed the practice. “And the kitchen better be spotless when I get home.”

Juliet waved Romeo ahead, and he buzzed up his friends with a grin.

Rosaline grabbed her messenger bag and stuffed in every book and paper in arm’s reach. She’d rather suffer a sticky, stinky evening in the library than risk running into _Montagues_ on her way out of the shower.

“Where are you going?” Juliet asked. “There’s plenty of food for everyone.”

Not on her life.

“Some of us have work to do. Two hours, Jules.”

 

* * *

 

She should’ve known better than to trust her cousin. Juliet didn’t kick them out after two hours. Or three. Or four. Because when Rosaline trudged into her apartment at a quarter to midnight, Juliet and Romeo dozed peacefully on the couch, undisturbed by the battle unfolding at their feet.

“I knew that ‘sweet and innocent’ schtick was an act,” hooted the guy lying upside down in the armchair, feet slung over the back. “Vicious use of the blue shell, Liv.”

“There are no rules in love or Mario Kart,” she retorted, watching the screen with the same intensity she used when studying for Organic Chemistry. “Everyone knows that.”

“Watch where you’re slinging that banana peel, Stell,” complained Benvolio.

“Didn’t you hear? There are no rules in Mario Kart.”

“Or love.” Tilting dangerously on his stool, he nudged her ribs with his foot. She batted him away and splayed out on the carpet, grumbling about distractions as she evaded a red shell. He smashed past the kart on her tail, earning a groan from the guy in the armchair.

“C’mon, Ben, mateys before dateys.”

“You know those y’s are unnecessary, right?”

Rosaline dropped her bag, taking satisfaction in the way the unwanted guests jumped at the _thud._ Benvolio’s kart spun out, but he was too busy peering over his shoulder to notice.

“Hey, sis,” Livia called, eyes on the screen as she zipped past the finish line. She turned to the tune of her victory lap, smiling a little too brightly. “How was the library?”

She unwound her scarf and dropped it on her bag. “Productive. Why are they still here?”

“We can hear you, you know.” Benvolio rotated his stool, resting his foot on the rung and eyeing her from her stiff spandex leggings to the frizzy mess of her hair. His smile could almost have been charming if he weren’t such an asshole. “Sweating a paper?”

Fully desensitized to her overripe sports bra, she smiled as sweetly as she could manage. “Unwanted company, actually.”

Much to her chagrin, he looked genuinely amused. “Ever considered changing your major? I think you have a knack for PR.”

“It’s good to see that my aunt’s party line about frats paving the way for success is as bullshit as I always thought it was.”

The guy in the chair laughed. “You must be the other cousin. I think I like you.” Flipping around so his feet touched the floor, he pointed around the room with his controller. “I’m Mercutio, there’s Stella, Disgustingly in Love fell asleep hours ago . . . and you seem to know Ben. He’s not usually rude to strangers.”

“Are you implying he has another setting?” she asked dryly.

Mercutio’s grin veered into puckish territory. “Prodding irony. Nice.”

“I think that’s our cue,” Stella said. Rolling to her feet, she caught Benvolio by the hand and pulled him off the stool. He let her drag him toward the door.

“Mercutio,” he called, “wake Romeo before she does. He’s too young to die. Gracious Rosaline—”

Her eyes rolled of their own accord.

“—there’s a plate for you in the microwave.”

She frowned as the door closed behind them.

“Stop worrying,” Livia said, unplugging the discarded controllers and neatly wrapping the cords. “The boys didn’t poison anything. Except maybe my taste for cafeteria food.”

“The boys,” she repeated flatly. Shoving her bag under the coffee table with her sneaker, she peeled herself out of her grimy tech jacket and chucked it at the basket poking out of the laundry closet.

“Romeo,” Mercutio stage-whispered, shaking his friend, “we should’ve ditched when Benvolio asked. Move your ass. I’m not explaining to your dad why your remains are seared onto a Capulet’s couch.”

Romeo shifted, and Juliet turned her face into his neck, groaning protest.

“No, but seriously.” Seizing his friend under the arms, Mercutio hauled him off the couch. Romeo stumbled, blinking wildly as he caught his feet.

“Bye, babe,” he said, leaning down to kiss Juliet. She caught his hand, tugging insistently until he got the picture and pulled her up for a proper kiss.

Mercutio gave them a minute before he caught Romeo by the shoulders and hauled him bodily away. “Unless you want a sneaker up this cute derriere,” he said, knocking a knee against his friend’s ass, “you’d best get it the hell out of here.”

Romeo turned, straining for another glimpse of Juliet as Mercutio steered him toward the door. His girlfriend bit her lip, smiling at his antics, as the door finally closed between them.

Rosaline crossed her arms, thumbs digging into thin skin. “I said two hours, Juliet. Five hours ago.”

Juliet wrung her hands, smile fading. “I know. I’m sorry, Rose.”

“You can’t take advantage of my apartment, then just disregard—”

“You know, Rosaline,” Livia broke in, “you’re not the only one who lives here.”

Rosaline turned a scowl on her. Her sister returned a mild look, pointedly placing a plate on the coffee table. The smell wafted across the room, earthy and a touch spicy, and Rosaline’s stomach gurgled, reminding her that its last meal had consisted of half a granola bar. Her frown deepened.

“I really am sorry,” Juliet said. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep. _Please_ don’t hold it against Romeo.”

Dark words danced lightly across Rosaline’s tongue. Juliet looked up at her anxiously, and she found she didn’t have the heart to say them. Her cousin was doing what she’d always done: floating through life unencumbered by other people’s worries.

She nodded shortly, and relief swept across Juliet’s face. Pushing onto her toes, Juliet kissed her temple. “I owe you, like, twenty.”

“You do.” Rosaline smoothed her cousin’s hair and sighed. “Will you be alright getting back, or do you need to stay?”

Juliet made a few practiced swipes on her phone and showed her cousin the glowing red timer. “If I’m not home in twenty, it’ll call the cops. And they’ll call you, because you’re my emergency contact.”

“Then get walking.” Rosaline shooed her toward the door. Shrugging into her coat, Juliet obliged, leaving Rosaline alone with her sister.

“I know what you’re going to say,” Livia began, “so you can leave it in your head for once.”

She did no such thing. _“Montagues,_ Livvy?”

Livia huffed, squatting by the TV cabinet to restack the games. “Don’t turn this around on me, Rosaline. You’re the one who let them in.”

She threw up her hands. “For Juliet! Not to sit around and play Mario Kart like you actually _like_ them.”

Her sister stood abruptly, kicking the cabinet closed. “And what’s wrong with Mario Kart? I had fun, Rosaline. You know, that thing people do while we’re busy working and studying and refusing our relatives’ generosity?”

“Generosity?” she repeated, dumbfounded.

Guilt flickered across Livia’s face, but she squared her shoulders. “I know you and Aunt Giuliana don’t get along, but would it kill you to accept Uncle Silv’s help every now and then? You quit your internship after a day, Rosaline. _A day.”_

Rosaline reached for her sister’s arm, shoving aside hurt feelings when Livia stepped around to refold the throw blanket balled up on the couch.

“You know we can’t afford to lose my paycheck. And I’m not going to celebrate table scraps from the people who watched Dad work himself to death.” Old feelings stirred between her lungs, awakening that pressing, implacable uncertainty that had chased her from childhood.

Taking a deep breath, Rosaline forced it down. Moving the plate, she sat on the coffee table, knees knocking Livia’s as she leaned forward. “I know life is hard right now, but once you make it through medical school—”

“In _six years._ I’m supposed to put my life on hold until then?” Livia’s anger gave way to a sudden, bone-deep weariness. She sank into the cushions, eyes wide and unsure as she peered up at her sister. “Is falling in love really so much to ask for?”

Her sister shouldn’t have to ask that. Her sister whose hope never wavered, no matter how bad things got. Pushing down her guilt, Rosaline squeezed her knee. “Of course not.”

“I want that,” Livia said. “And I want to hang out with people who don’t interrogate me about pet breeds. Who bring the beer and complain about classes and cook so I don’t have to.” Raising her chin, she met her sister’s eyes. “And you need at least one friend who isn’t living with your ex.”

Leaning back, Rosaline snatched a pillow from the floor to lob at her sister. “I’m doing just fine, thank you.”

Catching the pillow, Livia hugged it close. “Well, I’m not.”

That stung, though Rosaline tried not to let it. Her eyes caught on the plate of homemade food, its tempting warmth radiating across the coffee table.  A peace offering or a power move?

“There’s nothing wrong with making friends, Rosaline.”

“There is if they’re killers.” The words dropped from her mouth like lead, lingering metallic and bitter on her tongue. She’d never said them aloud before. A weight eased in her gut, and nausea rippled in its wake.

Tears sprang to her sister’s eyes. “Don’t, Rosaline. Don’t you dare.” She clutched the pillow as if she meant to tear it in two. “I hate Montague House, of course I do. But those boys didn’t start that fight, or prosecute Dad, or take away our family’s future. So don’t act like I’m betraying his memory by thinking Romeo is good for Jules or liking Ben and Mercutio’s cooking.”

A wave of jumbled emotions crested and broke, leaving Rosaline sapped and unsteady. Pushing off the coffee table, she sank beside her sister and clasped her hand, holding tight when Livia tried to pull away. “I would never think that, Livia,” she said firmly. “It’s just—I miss our parents. I hate the people who took them from us. And I worry—”

Between the cushions, something glinted in the moonlight. Juliet had lost an earring.

“You’re too trusting, Livvy. Don’t try to deny it.” She squeezed Livia’s hand, staving off her protests. “You are, and so is Juliet, and sometimes I worry that you trust the wrong people.” When she took a breath, it shook. “I can’t lose you.”

“That,” her sister said hoarsely, “is absolutely preposterous.” Smiling through her tears, Livia rested her hand atop Rosaline’s, squeezing it in both of hers. “And if something bad _were_ to happen,” she added, knowing her sister, “then I’d expect you to kick in the door and take care of it. I’m still waiting for my prince charming, but as my sister, you’ve had plenty of practice.”

Rosaline laughed wetly, realizing for the first time that she was crying too. She pulled her sister into a fierce hug. “You bet your ass I will.”


	3. late winter

** February **

 

“Well, if it isn’t Rosaline Capulet.” Beneath the upbeat music and crashing pins, something about the voice tickled familiarity. “I didn’t know you worked here.”

“As often as they’ll let me,” she quipped in her politest ‘we met in class, what makes you think we’re friends?’ voice. Stowing the shoe spray under the counter, she turned to find a girl in a wrinkled bartender’s uniform, blonde curls piled atop her head. The girl cocked her head wryly, clearly well-versed in the complex language of customer service.

“Oh,” Rosaline said, recognizing her from the night of the apartment-crashers. “It’s Stella, right?”

Stella nodded. “And you’re the girl Ben won’t stop complaining about.”

Rosaline’s face pinched, and the other girl laughed faintly through her nose. “Don’t worry, he’s not here.” Reaching behind her, she dragged forward a man in a black vest and white Oxford shirt, which looked oddly distinguished against the salt-and-pepper of his hair. “It was dead at the bar, and there’s no point working without tips. I convinced Julian this was a better use of our time.”

“The Globe has free beer,” he complained, but the grin crinkling his cheeks belied his longsuffering expression. “Tastes better too. 9 ½ and 7, please,” he added, turning an amiable smile on Rosaline. Fishing a wad of crumpled bills from his pocket, he smoothed out a ten on the counter. “It’s Unlimited Play Thursday, right?”

“Every week.” She deposited the money into the till and grabbed their shoes. “But the beer is extra.”

Stella gave Julian a sly grin. “Beer’s always extra. Unless you know the owner.”

He chucked her under the chin and she danced away.

“Lane 10 okay?” he asked Rosaline, snagging their shoes by the heels to swing them in the direction of the lanes.

Rosaline sucked her teeth, trying to unravel the knot forming in her stomach. “Whatever’s open,” she said at last. Despite a stern mental warning, she found herself asking, “Where’s Benvolio tonight?”

“The art lab, probably. He’s got some new project, motion or _e_ motion.” Stella’s lips quirked, eyes rolling in affectionate exasperation. “Honestly it goes right over my head.”

Julian tilted his head in the direction of the lanes, and Stella waved him on. He popped her ass with the bowling shoes, then headed over to enter their names into the scoreboard.

“I thought he was a business major.” Rosaline’s brow furrowed as the words left her mouth. She must have picked up that tidbit from Juliet; she had no reason to know it otherwise.

“I know, I keep telling him to drop one of his majors. No common classes? Sounds like a recipe for a mental break if you ask me.” Stella quirked her shoulder. “But I skipped the whole college thing. What do I know?”

Rosaline wasn’t sure what to say to that, so she fell back on her customer service smile. “Enjoy your game, Stella. A word from the wise? Don’t risk whatever’s on tap.”

“Good to know.” Smiling as if nothing were the least bit amiss, Stella headed to lane 10 and dropped into a plastic bucket seat beside Julian. Rosaline watched their knees bump playfully as they laced their shoes.

 _Stop reading into things,_ she told herself. Turning abruptly away, she groped under the counter for her shoe spray. The only thing that stunk in this bowling alley was the day-old foot odor she’d been tasked with eradicating. Besides, if Montague’s girlfriend wanted to flirt with her coworkers, it didn’t make a bit of difference to her.

 

* * *

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/37334165636/in/album-72157685664043342/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/37334166366/in/album-72157685664043342/)

 

The question zipped up her spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Suddenly, she was uncomfortably aware of a fluttering sensation in her stomach. Staring at the message, Rosaline considered. They were friends, in a bizarre way. And wasn’t it weirder _not_ to know your friends’ names?

A phone clattered to the linoleum, slicing through the low murmur of conversation. A hundred heads swiveled to the front of the room, a hundred faces wincing in sympathy. Professor Gonzaga stooped, retrieving his phone around an armload of books.

“And that’s why glass screen protectors are worth the investment, folks.” Sliding his books onto the desk, he dusted off his phone and raised it high, wiggling it to draw the attention of the students’ whose eyes had started to wander. “But you couldn’t ask for a better segue. So. Mobile marketing. How can you reach the smartphone generation?”

Relief washed over her as she swiped out of her messages, leaving confusing thoughts for another time. She pulled up her Facebook app as instructed, scrolling past pictures of her aunt’s bridge friends in search of an ad that didn’t make her cringe.

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/37351706882/in/album-72157685664043342/)

 

 _As if anyone would pick a candidate who wasn’t a Prince._ Pushing that thought aside too, Rosaline forced her eyes to the front of the lecture hall.

“Now,” Gonzaga was saying, “to reach a mobile audience . . .”

 

* * *

 

“Remind me again: why are we organizing a charity fundraiser none of us are attending?”

The box clinked heavily as Rosaline slid it onto the table. She rolled her shoulders to work out the kinks, then circled back to the dolly as Juliet peeled back the tape and started unboxing crystal votives.

“Because,” her cousin said, “I have a philanthropy quota to fill. And you owe me for convincing Mom and Dad not to cut you off after that internship fiasco.”

Kindly, Livia didn’t chime into the ‘Rosaline wrecked her future’ chorus.

“You should go, Rosaline,” she said instead. “Don’t you want to forget about the world for a while?” Stepping off the ladder, she wrapped a string of fairy lights around her shoulders like a shawl and swayed in time to her romantic daydreams.

Rosaline scoffed loudly, but she couldn’t help but smile at her sister’s antics. _“You_ can go. Find some idiot frat boy to sweep you off your feet.”

Letting the string lights drop to her elbows, Livia returned to earth, uncharacteristically sidestepping the prince charming angle. “One night at Capulet House’s Soulmate Soiree, and you’ll be singing sonnets in your sleep.”

“All the more reason to stay away.”

“Did someone say ‘Soulmate Soiree’?”

Squealing, Juliet abandoned her efforts to throw herself into her boyfriend’s arms. He swept her off her feet, face buried in her hair as he murmured her name.

“Don’t they ever get tired of that?” Rosaline asked no one in particular, resting a box on her knee to watch the spectacle.

Her sister swatted the air. “Oh, hush. They’re in love. Let them be.”

“They’re _in_ something,” another voice agreed. “-sane, maybe?”

Rosaline scoffed, hoisting the box into her arms and walking away.

“Hello, Benvolio,” Livia said with exaggerated politeness. “We’re so happy to see you.”

“Yeah, I’m sensing that.”

Rosaline could practically feel Livia’s pointed stare digging into her back. “Montague,” she said to appease her sister. Dropping the box heavily onto a table, she pretended not to see the resulting eye roll.

“What are you doing here?” Juliet asked as Romeo lowered her back to the ground. She wove their fingers together, glancing toward the door. “If anyone catches you . . . ”

“To see you? It’s worth the risk.”

She beamed at him, pressing onto her toes for a kiss, and Mercutio took that opportunity to swagger into the event hall, pausing in their midst to sweep a bow.

“We’ve come to rescue the fair sisters of Capulet House from such menial manual labor.”

Benvolio rolled his eyes, kicking at Mercutio playfully, and his friend leaped away, landing with a flourish on the second rung of the ladder.

“You know very well that Rosaline and I are beneath such things,” Livia said. “But as long as you’re offering . . .” She plopped a string of fairy lights into Mercutio’s outstretched hand. Despite his grand statement, he looked vaguely surprised to find himself being put to work. She cocked her hip, arms akimbo, and he gamely climbed a few rungs higher to hook the wire onto a nail.

Hoisting another box, Rosaline blew at a curl plastered to her forehead. “You do know what Juliet’s sisters will do if they find you here. Is pestering us really worth the trouble?”

“For you, Capulet? Always.” Montague’s faint smirk belied his innocent tone. She made a face at him.

“Ban us from the Soulmate Soiree?” Mercutio chimed in as if Benvolio hadn’t spoken. He leaned dangerously sideways, hooking another loop of lights. “As if they haven’t done that every year since our parents were pledges.”

“Jule,” Romeo began, “to save you from this cardboard hell—” but Rosaline was stuck on Mercutio’s words. Flippant, indifferent, as if the great divide were some petty sentence handed down from the heavens. She closed her eyes, and two plaques stamped behind her eyelids, decorating rival houses on Greek row: _This House hereafter named in remembrance of . . ._

“What’s life without a little risk?” Benvolio’s voice broke through the buzzing in her ears. She blinked away the memories.

“Then, by all means, rescue us poor damsels.” Shoving a box against his chest, she took pleasure in his strangled grunt as he tried not to drop it.

“We said we’re here to help,” he protested as she stepped away, hunting for her coat, “not do it for you.”

“Don’t go, Rose,” Juliet protested. Disentangling herself from her boyfriend, she dipped into a nearby box and emerged with a bottle of champagne. “Let’s pop the bubbly, make a day of it.”

Livia shot her sister a plaintive look as Mercutio plucked a sparkling heart ornament from her outstretched hand. He hooked it over his ear, batting his eyes at Rosaline in lieu of a more convincing argument.

“You’ll be fine,” she insisted, looping her scarf around her neck. It caught a bead of sweat before it could dip into her shirt. At least now she had a chance to shower before her shift. “Even Montague can’t mess up hauling boxes.”

His voice chased her into the February air. “For you, Capulet, I promise to try!”

 

* * *

 

“Are you sure you’ve thought this through?”

“Rosaline,” Livia hissed, looking up from the drawer she’d been rifling through to give her sister a look.

Isabella squeezed her arm, unruffled by her friend’s concern. Her eyes found her girlfriend, peering through the window into the cat enclosure, and an enamored smile captured her lips. “Do you really think I’d sign a lease without due diligence?”

“The apartment, yes,” Rosaline said reasonably, “but a cat? That’s basically co-parenting.”

“And they’ll make wonderful parents,” Livia announced loudly, stepping between them to unlock the door.

Helena, who’d been fastidiously pretending not to overhear their conversation, graced her girlfriend with a smile before stepping eagerly into the cacophony of yowls and meows. Rosaline hung back, letting Isabella catch Helena’s hand before trailing after them.

“Now I know you’d love a kitten,” Isabella was saying, “but I’ve done my research, and I think a cat would be more suited to—”

“You worry too much,” Livia said, coming up beside her sister.

“And you worry too little,” she retorted. At Livia’s look, she sighed, watching the couple glide eagerly from cage to cage, hands clasped. “I’m happy for them. Honestly, I am. But what happens when the semester ends?”

“Isabella will go back to Venice,” Livia said. “Or Helena will stay in Verona. Or maybe they’ll jet set across the world to run one of Tessa Montague’s subsidiaries.”

“Ugh.” It baffled Rosaline that her sweet, fastidious friend counted Tessa Montague as someone worth emulating. No job was worth selling your soul.

Livia nudged her sister, watching the couple fondly. “They’re in love, Rosaline. Let them figure it out. _You_ ,” she added, hooking her arm through Rosaline’s, “have other things to worry about. Like which cat we’re getting when you finally get over this ‘extra mouth to feed’ nonsense.”

“We’re not getting a cat,” Rosaline said, but she let her sister pull her towards the wall of kennels. A squash-faced kitten batted at the bars, demanding her attention. She pressed her hand to the woven metal, feeling the vibrations shiver up her palm. The cat mewled, swiping at her hand through the bars, and she couldn’t help but smile. It was quite possibly the ugliest cat she’d ever seen—and needy to boot. Livia was probably smitten.

Curious, she glanced at the corner of the cage. A sticker proclaimed _Mouse - Exotic Shorthair - 2 months_ but what drew her attention was the sketch taped beside it: Livia, her back to the artist as she cradled Mouse, who peered at the viewer over her shoulder. Even in charcoal, there was something of Juliet in its soft, plaintive eyes, making it clear who the kitten had been named for.

A glance around the room revealed more drawings taped to the corners of half a dozen cages. Some depicted strangers, teasing cats with yarn and toys. Others featured no people at all, just an old cat asleep in the playroom or a spitting kitten, fur bristled in indignation. A few stood out in partial color, watercolors picking out tufts of orangesicle fur or luminescent green eyes. Two of the cages were empty. She wondered if the cats had been adopted.

She returned to the picture of Livia, fingers ghosted over the charcoal curve of her sister’s cheek, nuzzled against the kitten on her shoulder. “They’re captivating,” she said softly, as the artwork seemed to warrant.

“They are, aren’t they?” Her sister’s lips twitched, so pleased she bordered on impish. Lightly, she pinched Rosaline’s side and added, “I’ll tell Benvolio you said so.”

Rosaline released a breath, stirring the paper. She looked to her sister, the drawing, the mirror-image of the squashed-face charcoal cat slinking around in its kennel. “Montague drew these?”

Livia laughed at the look on her face. “He visited with Juliet and Romeo, desperate for inspiration for an assignment. But he let me snap a pic for Facebook, and the meanest mutt you ever saw was adopted by the end of the day. Now Ben’s an official volunteer, and can legally write off art supplies on his taxes.”

“Assuming he pays any.” Her fingers returned to the drawing of their own volition, thumb smudging the corner that bore his scrawled signature. She forced herself to take a step back, smearing charcoal across her palm. “Stella said her boyfriend was a temperamental artist. I just didn’t expect him to be any good.”

“I’ll tell him you said _that_ too.”

“Do,” Rosaline challenged. Her sister pinched her harder this time.

“You know,” Livia said with that distant, casual sort of hope she’d mastered at birth, “if you gave the boys a chance—”

Rosaline fixed her attention elsewhere before her sister could start excusing the Montagues’ myriad sins.

“How’s baby hunting?” she called to their friends, pretending not to notice how Livia dropped her arm with a pointed huff.

Helena and Isabella exchanged a look, shoulders bumping around their clasped hands. True to form, Isabella stifled her enthusiasm for a more practical approach.

“It’s too early to tell. We thought that if we spent a few minutes in the playroom . . .”

Helena smiled at her girlfriend, perfectly content to play along with the charade. “Can we borrow the keeper of the keys?”

Livia flounced off after them. The couple exchange soft smiles while she unlocked the playroom and retrieved a sleek, spotted cat that, beyond a shadow of a doubt, would be a fixture in their home before the hour was up. Rosaline’s concerns seemed silly all of a sudden, watching her friends sink to the floor in tandem, cat scampering circles around them before settling into Helena’s lap with a contented purr.

Had she and Escalus ever looked like that, content to just be? What did it feel like, the kind of love Livia wanted?

Putting aside those thoughts for another time, she dug out her phone, snapping a picture as Isabella leaned over Helena’s lap to coo at the cat.

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/37351707222/in/album-72157685664043342/)

 

* * *

 

The murmur of conversation caught her ear, echoing through the street behind the bowling alley. The curiosity that had killed a thousand token damsels—and gotten her grounded more than once—compelled Rosaline’s feet forward. Gripping the neck of the trash bag so the shifting garbage wouldn’t give her away, she skirted several grimy dumpsters and peered down an alley, where a cracked door spilled light onto the asphalt.

Suddenly, she wished she’d minded her own damn business.

In the dim light from the bar, she could just make out Stella’s exasperated expression. “Ben, if you want to go with him, just go.”

“I don’t want to go with him; I want to go with you.”

Rosaline inched backward, all too aware of the scrape of her sneakers and the faint clinking of beer glasses. Her heartbeat kicked up a notch, and suddenly she could hear that too.

“I work holidays, you know that. I’m sure you and Mercutio—”

His fingers alighted on his girlfriend’s hip to anchor an earnest and unintelligible plea.

Stella’s fell back against the brick wall. “Do we have to do this now? Nencia’s alone at the bar.”

“Stella . . .” His longing was so palpable that Rosaline’s heart skipped a beat. He sounded like Escalus last fall, begging for a second chance and knowing he wouldn’t get one. She took a hasty step back, glancing toward the bowling alley to calculate whether she could dash inside before they came to investigate.

Stella caught the flap of his jacket, holding him close—but no closer. “Come on, Ben. We have fun, don’t we?”

Rosaline’s fingernail broke through the cheap plastic bag, and her breath caught. The trash shifted, jangling faintly, and her finger squished into something she’d rather not identify.

“I want more than that, Stella. I want you. For real.”

Stella sighed. “I know you do.” Resignation tangled up with sympathy, encouraging him to lean into her. Her hand pressed against his stomach, keeping him from closing the distance.

“I said no, Benvolio.” He turned pleading eyes on her, and her shoulders slumped. “I’m just . . . not ready for that. Okay? I don’t want this to change between us.”

Rosaline heard nothing else for several excruciating seconds. Then his shoe scuffed against the pavement, sharply at first, then more softly as he retreated, nodding reluctantly.

“Yeah, okay.”

Stella slipped away, and he let her go. Pausing with a hand on the door jam, she looked back, biting her lip. “You can call me later. If you want.” And then she was gone, door closed firmly behind her.

It was high time for Rosaline to follow suit. Fingers aching from the weight of the bag, she gripped it tighter, extending her arm so it wouldn’t bump her hip as she scurried away.

“Who’s there?” Montague’s voice chased her down the alley. His footsteps followed, echoing faster and faster to match her pace.

Breaking into a run, she skidded around the dumpster just as he caught up with her.

“Capulet.” He sounded surprised.

Caught, she turned and met his eyes. The harsh halogen lights picked out a glint of blue, all chipped defiance in the cold night air. Hurt, hazy green swirled around his pupils, as if he were already hiding from the pity he expected to find.

‘I’m sorry’ seemed so awkward, so inadequate. Explaining herself would be worse.

Deliberately, Rosaline raised her chin. “You haven’t been to the shelter all week. Livia’s ready to skin you, and you know how forgiving she is.”

She watched him process her words, parse out their meaning, realize she’d just handed him a Kevlar vest in a hail of bullets. Benvolio dusted off his devil-may-care grin. “I do have a life outside of entertaining Capulets, you know.”

Relief swept her into familiar patterns. “I wish you’d spend more time living it, instead of popping up where you’re not wanted.” His confidence wavered, and she thought back to his argument with Stella. Hastily, she added, “But my sister thinks she’s entitled to a portrait of every stray that comes through her door, so you’d better make time.”

He fell in step with her, holding open the dumpster as she heaved the trash bag over the rim. She wiped the unidentified gunk onto her work pants, hoping it wouldn’t stain. When she looked up, something in his expression had lifted, lightened.

“You’ve seen my work.”

“Work? _This_ is work.” Gesturing to the dumpster, she gave him the brunt of her most unimpressed look before allowing, “I’ve seen your drawings.”

“Line art with cramped hands is work,” he retorted, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “And?”

“And?”

“What did you think?”

She rocked on her heels, trying to find the line between honesty and ego boost. “Apparently they’re popular with the middle-aged Facebook crowd.”

“So I’ve heard,” he said dryly. “And you’re avoiding the question.”

Unconsciously, she rubbed her thumb across her palm, feeling phantom grains of charcoal. “I’d be happy to stand around and discuss your myriad talents, Montague, but some of us have _real_ work to do.”

She turned before he could latch onto the word ‘talents’, jiggling the back door until the lock unstuck. She hoped Caroline had managed to figure out the register while she was gone.

“Hey, Capulet?”

Turning, she took the full brunt of his suddenly unguarded expression. “Thank you.”

With a brusque nod, she escaped inside, scrubbing her palms on her pants to wipe off the strangely sticky feeling. Nan had expected her back ten minutes ago, after all; she couldn’t afford to lose any more weekend hours.

 

* * *

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/23530244158/in/album-72157685664043342/)

 

* * *

 

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/36673044214/in/album-72157685664043342/)

 

Rosaline sat up so quickly that the magazine slipped from her lap onto the floor. Scooping it up, she smoothed out a crease, watching her lock screen fade to black. They’d texted here and there—mostly about stupid stuff like loud housemates and the provost’s penchant for sneaking alcohol to students—but something about this felt different. Maybe it was the wine she’d splurged on humming quietly in her veins, drowning out thoughts of Escalus and worry over her sister, who’d agreed to a first date today of all days. Maybe it was that her brain sometimes stuck on that unanswered question: _Is there something else I can call you?_

Her heart beat a little faster. She didn’t want to know why.

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/23530065068/in/album-72157685664043342/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/36673044274/in/album-72157685664043342/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/23530065278/in/album-72157685664043342/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/36673044384/in/album-72157685664043342/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/23530065398/in/album-72157685664043342/)

 

The ellipses vanished. Reappeared. Vanished again. Rosaline reread her text. In her head, it had been light-hearted—flirtatious, even—but in the cold glow of the backlight, all humor had mysteriously vanished.

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/23530133738/in/album-72157685664043342/)

 

With a frustrated sigh—at herself, mostly—Rosaline tossed her phone onto the couch, where it bounced between the cushions. If she was going to be alone on Valentine’s Day, she might as well lean into it.

 

* * *

 

> _“I wonder who first discovered the power of poetry in driving away love?”_

_K-thunk-unk-unk._

Rosaline jumped, wrenched from the movie’s spell. Her front door reverberated with faint aftershocks of the blow. Breathing deeply, she willed her heart to slow. It wasn’t unusual for 4C to get drunk and stumble through the halls, but she’d assumed she was the only loner on property that night.  

> _“—if it is only a vague inclination, I’m convinced one poor sonnet will kill it stone dead.”_
> 
> _“So what do you recommend—”_

“Come on, Capulet,” called a muffled voice. One that didn’t belong to 4C. “I know you’re in there. Are you going to let me in or not?”

 _Just what I need tonight._ Rosaline paused the movie, ignoring Mr. Darcy’s surprised disapproval over her choice to humor a Montague. Hauling herself off the couch took more effort than it should, but she finally levered herself from the sinkhole of broken springs to throw open the door. Snow dusted Benvolio’s jacket and melted in his hair. A flush crept up his nose like some bizarre facsimile of a Valentine’s Day decoration.

“How did you get up here?”

“3E buzzed me up.”

She crossed her arms. “Looks like I need to have a chat with my landlord.”

He grinned at that, maneuvering past her to plop himself onto the couch. His eyes met Mr. Darcy’s, mirroring their surprise.

“Small world,” he mused, lifting her wine glass for a sniff. She snatched it from his hand before he could take a sip, downing the rest and clanking the glass onto the coffee table.

“I guess that means your night sucks as much as mine?”

“How is that any of your business?”

“Come on, Capulet,” he cajoled. “I don’t like drinking alone.” Something about that tickled familiarity, but he moved on before she could think too hard on it. “Look,” he said, dropping the bluster, “I know we’re not exactly friends. But your sister said you were home alone tonight and I—” Catching himself, he cleared his throat. “Why suffer alone, you know?”

Rosaline sucked her cheek. He sounded real for once, earnest and a little awkward, like that night Juliet—

“I’m watching a movie,” she said, pushing that thought firmly away. “You missed half of it already.”

“I’m sure I can keep up. If you promise to share the wine?”

“Get your own.” Snatching the bottle from the coffee table, she refilled her glass and dropped down beside him, setting it just out of reach.

Rolling his eyes, he fished a flask from his jacket and took a swig. “Are you hungry?”

She paused in the action of unpausing the movie, letting her eyes drift sideways. “Are you offering?”

That irreverent air returned, tinged with exasperation. “This isn’t a date, Capulet. I’m taking pity on you.”

He looked legitimately offended at the face she made at the word ‘date’. Impishness overtook her; she schooled her expression to innocence.

“Are you sure this isn’t about spending Valentine’s Day with a pretty girl?”

Clearly, he caught the reference. ‘Flummoxed’ was too kind a term for the look on his face. “I—you—are not _nearly_ as pretty as you think, Capulet.”

She surprised herself by laughing. “Witty, though.”

This time he opened his mouth to retort. She hurried on before she could lose the upper hand.

“You’re not crashing on my couch out of some misplaced sense of chivalry, Montague. You’re here so you don’t have to think about how many guys’ numbers Mercutio scored without you. You owe me.”

If Benvolio noticed how carefully she skirted any mention of his girlfriend, he didn’t let on. Instead, he offered Rosaline his phone, delivery app open to her choice of restaurants. “Fine, you win. But only because my uncle’s paying.”


	4. spring comes slowly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took forever. It's a doozy, and it demanded to be rewritten no less than 3 times. Thanks to everyone for sticking with me. Hope it's worth the wait!

February

 

“What do you mean ‘no comment’?”

Rocking back on her heels, Rosaline stared up at her sister, wondering if this mystery man had drugged her somehow. Sister dish sessions were a time-honored tradition for the Capulets, and Livia was usually not the reticent one.

Half-buried in the depths of her closet, Livia continued, unfazed. “I _mean_ that I really like this guy, Rosaline, and I don’t want you picking apart everything he said or did.”

“You say that like I’m deliberately trying to ruin your love life.” Reaching under the bed, Rosaline grasped the edge of a plastic box decorated with cartoon frippery and yanked. “I’m not allowed to worry about my sister? I love you, Livia, but some of the assholes you excuse . . .”

Emerging from the closet with an armload of eveningwear, Livia deliberately jostled her when she dropped everything onto the bed. “He was a perfect gentleman. Despite what you may think, I won’t excuse some guy’s BS just because I want a boyfriend.”

Rosaline paused, tilting her head at her sister. “What if I promised not to judge?”

Livia snorted. “Then you’d be a liar.”

“Out loud,” Rosaline amended, peeling the lid off the box. “Silent judging is a big sister’s prerogative.” Balling up a scarf, she lobbed it at her sister, who dodged on instinct. “It’s payback for all those years of you sticking your nose into my relationships.”

“Relationship,” her sister corrected, sounding just like that nosy thirteen-year-old. She started sorting the dresses by style, modern here and vintage there, while sing-songing something that sounded suspiciously like “For now” under her breath.

Whatever _that_ was about, Rosaline wasn’t opening up another can of worms today. She tossed aside a small, peeling box of costume jewelry and rooted deeper into the storage bin. “How many times have I had your back on Tinder nights?”

“Two.”

Rosaline raised an eyebrow, and Livia chewed her lip, clearly remembering the steady stream of subpar dates that hadn’t ended in outright disaster.

“Oh, alright,” she relented. “But you’re not getting details.” Her no-nonsense tone clashed with the little bounce in her step as she dropped onto the bed, crushing the mound of silk and satin.

“Fine. Spill.”

And just like that, stardust sparkled in Livia’s eyes. A smile tucked itself into Rosaline’s cheek at her sister’s obvious delight.

“You know Juliet loaned me her car so he wouldn’t know where we live,” Livia began as pragmatically as possible, tugging Rosaline onto the bed as a good dish warranted.

“When did you meet him?” Rosaline cut in.

Livia poked her in the side. “I said no details.”

“You said no V-Day details. I don’t get to know _anything_ about this guy?”

Livia continued on like she hadn’t heard. “So he’d made reservations at _the_ most romantic restaurant; I swear the waitlist had to be five years. There was music and wine and candlelight . . _._ Then we went to a rooftop champagne bar with a _breath_ taking view of the city . . . ”

She trailed off, lost in memory, and Rosaline’s smile skewed wry. Cheesy, cliche, grandiose—decades of her sister’s romantic fantasies come true.

“Oh!” Livia remembered suddenly, “Mercutio was there! He can vouch for us. And _no,”_ she added, bumping her knee against Rosaline’s, “he won’t share details. He’s been sworn to secrecy.”

Rosaline bumped back. “Like I’d trust a word out of his mouth.”

Someone who showboated as much as Mercutio was sure to let a few details slip. Did she have his number? Montague would. Did she have _his_ number?

She gave herself a mental shake. _Juliet_ would have Mercutio’s number. Commiserating over their failed Valentine’s Days hardly made her and Benvolio friends.

Livia offered the barest pretense of believing her before returning to her story. “Uh huh. Anyway, we took a stroll in the moonlight and talked until dawn. He took me to the overlook, and we watched the sun rise over the city. Then I let him kiss me good morning.” Sighing with a dreamy expression to put Juliet to shame, she stared off into the distance, as if the dingy walls of their apartment were too beautiful to bear.

Rosaline managed to stifle her big sister impulse until Livia came back to earth. “And—”

 _“And,”_ her sister broke in, “at no point did he pressure me, top off my drink, or ask for my Social Security Number. Happy?”

 _Happy_ was a strong word for hearing he'd reached the bottom tier of decency, but the look in Livia's eyes clearly said she’d get no more today. Squeezing her arm, she said the truest thing she could: “I’m happy you’re happy.”

“I really am.”

They shared a smile, hands clasped together. Then Livia stood, straightening the smushed pile of fabric. Rosaline followed suit, rummaging through their box of little-used accessories for last year’s masks.

“You should wear blue this year.” Livia held up a silk dress in robin’s egg blue with cut-outs on the shoulder. “We both know you’ll ditch before midnight. I'll let you borrow my rhinestone heels and you can pull a Cinderella on the last guy who dances with you.”

Rosaline snorted. More than likely it'd be one of her uncle’s business partners looking for new ways to brownnose. “You play the princess; I wore that last year. And don’t change the subject.”

“The subject is _closed.”_

“I need a name, at least.”

Livia’s scoff wasn’t hard to interpret: “Dream on, sis.”

“I promise not to stalk his social,” she protested, as Livia pantomimed a zipper across her lips. “Are we going to use code names like we’re back in middle school?”

Livia shook out another dress, holding it aloft with a critical eye before swinging it over to examine it with Rosaline’s coloring. “What about this one?”

“Livia!”

“Look, I know it goes against your big sister instincts, but you’re just going to have to trust me. Besides,” she added with a familiar, insinuating loftiness, “I’m not the only one keeping secrets about Valentine’s Day.”

A clip-on earring jumped up to bite her. Sucking on her finger, Rosaline narrowed her eyes at her sister. “Montague told you.”

“Stella, actually. She seems happy that her boyfriend’s making friends. I would’ve been too,” she added, fluffing a dress with unnecessary verve, “if anyone had bothered to tell me.”

“Stella told you,” Rosaline repeated unhelpfully. Livia gave her a dark look—well, for Livia—which she pretended not to see. “There’s nothing to tell. He barged in uninvited and polished off my Treat Yo Self cab sauv.”

“Oh, don’t give me that! He was here until Stella closed the bar. At _3 am,”_ Livia reminded, in case Rosaline had forgotten.

She hadn’t. After making her rewatch the Pemberley scene half a dozen times, Benvolio had somehow convinced her that she’d like his favorite documentary about Italian Rococo sculpture. The only explanation for her momentary lapse in sanity was the pitcher of margaritas he’d made after dragging her on a midnight grocery run. Still, there had been something strangely endearing about the way he kept stealing glances at her, hoping to catch her in awe of his favorite pieces.

“That’s not nothing, Rosaline.”

Rosaline jolted back to the present, fingers closing around a mask. She tugged it free and raised it to her face to put a cap on that line of thinking. “His girlfriend was working, and he was the only one of his friends not getting laid. He needed a distraction or he might have drunk himself to death.”

Livia reached up, attempting to straighten the mashed feathers tickling Rosaline’s cheek. “And _you_ were the clear choice.”

Sarcasm didn’t become her. Rosaline told her so, and her sister stuck out her tongue.

Tossing the mask onto the bed, Rosaline went back to digging. “He must be pretty damn lonely if I looked like appealing company.” She meant it as a joke, but as the words left her mouth, they tasted of truth. Sometimes his laughter came too quickly and lingered too long.

She caught Livia’s expression in her periphery and cleared her throat. “But I’m the only person in his social circle pathetic enough to be dateless on Valentine’s Day. That’s a quote, by the way,” she added, because Livia clearly needed a reminder that she and Benvolio would never be friends.

“Alright, Rosaline, I’ll make you a deal: I won’t demand the details of your blossoming friendship with Ben, if _you,”_ Livia continued loudly, as if to drown out the squeamish look on Rosaline’s face, “promise not to pry about my boyfriend. Deal?”

_“Boyfriend?”_

“Deal?” Livia said more firmly.

Rosaline let out a frustrated sigh. “Fine, I won’t pry. Just don’t turn off Find My Friends.” When her sister made to argue, she cut her off with a pleading look. “Please. Big sisters worry.”

“Oh, alright.”

Tugging a mask from beneath a pair of boots, Rosaline slipped it on with a smile.

Livia pulled a face. “You can’t wear that one. It looks like it spent three years under the bed.”

She did her best to straighten its bent edges. “That’s because it did. Think it might give Aunt Guiliana a heart attack?”

Livia smiled. “A girl can dream.”

Rosaline laughed, and her sister snagged the mask from her hand, frisbeeing it into the folding armchair. “Seriously, you can’t wear that. Call Jules. We’re going shopping.”

There went her Treat Yo Self merlot.

 

* * *

 

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* * *

 

March

 

Rosaline’s flip-flops slapped against the threadbare carpet as she paced her bedroom. Each footfall reverberated the feeling of betrayal up her spine. The offending email sat open on her laptop, taunting her at every turn, but she ignored it to glare at the tiny, pixelated Judas on her phone, lips pursed as if to impart a kiss.

“What the hell were you thinking? _Tessa Montague?_ As if I’d ever work for that snake.”

Isabella’s unimpressed purse became more pronounced. “Rosaline, be realistic. If you want a job after graduation, you need an internship. A good one. You have one semester left. Time is running out.”

“I’d rather starve.”

“Would you rather Livia starve?”

Stalking to her bed, Rosaline snapped her laptop shut, wishing the whole mess would disappear as easily.

“My uncle may not like us, but he won’t watch us go hungry.” Not again. Too often she’d seen the guilt in his eyes, the forced benevolence, as if buying his nieces a new dress might erase the fact that he’d bent to his wife’s will and cut off his brother in a last-ditch attempt to mitigate the scandal.

“Maybe,” Isabella agreed, “but not letting you starve is a far cry from paying your sister’s way through medical school.”

She left Rosaline to fill in the blanks, but there was no need. Unless Mercutio was right about Livia’s mystery man, she and her sister would be dodging bill collectors for the next decade.

“I’ll have time to look in the summer,” she said stubbornly. “Capulet and Montague aren’t my only options.”

“The only businesses in town not owned by your families are bound up in so many contracts they might as well be. Unless you were planning a career in politics?” Isabella raised an eyebrow, knowing full well that her brother’s political aspirations had been an unending source of conflict in their relationship.

If she meant to soften Rosaline’s ire, she only succeeded in redirecting it. “You’re primed for one. You went behind my back to a woman I hate—”

“Rosaline, you don’t even know her.”

“I don’t have to.”

Isabella gave her a hard look. “You’ve been hanging out with Montagues all semester.”

“It’s not my fault Jules and Livia have bad taste in friends.” That felt unfair, somehow. She doubled down on her anger, hoping to smother that small, lost feeling tugging at her heart. “I can’t believe you would do this to me.”

“To you? I’m doing this _for_ you. Rosaline, you have ten months until graduation. _Ten._  When you start applying for jobs, your competition will have years of experience.” The tiny rendition of Isabella squared her shoulders, giving her friend a look she normally reserved for cutting deals with business sharks. “Tessa owns firms that aren’t associated with Montague & Montague. She’s given me full authority for hiring decisions, and you’re perfect for marketing and development.” The business-mogul-in-training melted away, leaving Rosaline’s friend in her place. “A _paid_ internship, Rosaline. Do you know how unheard of that is?”

She did. That was the problem.

“So you’re about nepotism now?”

Isabella remained unruffled. “The world runs on nepotism. The trick is being competent enough to convince people otherwise.” She fixed her friend with a frank look. “You need an internship, and I’m in a position to get you one. Let me help you.”

Rosaline stared up at the ceiling, pressing her phone against her leg to take several deep, calming breaths. When she raised Isabella back to eye level, she could hold her phone without shaking.

“I know you’re just trying to help, Isabella, but I can’t betray my family for a career.”

Isabella’s lips pursed again. “I’ll tell her you’re still considering," she said as if Rosaline was the one who was being unreasonable.

“There’s nothing to consider. The answer is no.”

Livia would just have to forgive her.

 

* * *

 

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“So,” Juliet said when she pranced through the door, wearing leggings and a messy bun despite her earlier protestations, “what are we not thinking about today?”

“That kind of undermines the point,” Rosaline said, slipping an arm around her in greeting.

Juliet danced from one side of her to the other, switching arms halfway through. Her bun smacked Rosaline in the face as she broke away, veering toward the kitchen.

“I already made drinks!”

Standing on tiptoes, Juliet caught sight of the table laden with chips, chocolate, and drink supplies.

“Ooh, margaritas!” She dipped below the counter, clattering and clanging and emerging with a plate and an entire bag of sugar.

“Ugh.” Rosaline wrinkled her nose. “You’re going to get diabetes.”

Her cousin poured a generous helping onto the plate, licked her thumb, and dipped the moistened rim of the margarita glass into the sugar. “I’m the sweet one, you’re the salty one,” she said, grabbing another glass and dipping it into the margarita salt. “But we’ll both be the drunk ones by the end of the night.”

Rosaline smiled. It wasn’t exactly untrue.

“Alright, sweet one, how much do you want?” Montague could keep his fancy lime-and-Cointreau concoctions; all she needed was margarita mix and a generous helping of tequila.

Juliet tipped Rosaline’s hand for an extra splash of liquor, and they settled onto the couch to forget about the world for awhile. By the time Romeo texted with a cutesy warning to get off his dad’s Netflix, they were in two movies and half a bottle of Patron.

“I hope the boys are watching.” Juliet kept hitting the wrong button to turn off the PlayStation, so Rosaline leaned over and did it for her. Sitting up again was harder than it should have been, so she gave up, letting Juliet lean against her. “Romeo loves his dad and all, but he’s kind of a dick.”

It was the least complimentary thing Rosaline had ever heard her cousin say about her boyfriend.

“Well,” she said reasonably—or as reasonably as she could around a clumsy tongue— “he’s a Montague. What do you expect?”

Pushing herself from the nest of blankets, Juliet fell dramatically against the arm of the couch. Her foot pushed against Rosaline’s thigh as if distance herself further.

“Stop that.” Rosaline grabbed her cousin’s ankle. “You know I’m not talking about Romeo. He’s . . .” She cast about for an appropriate description, but her thoughts kept slipping through her fingers to splash at her feet. An image resolved, hazy and happy: three boys who clearly loved each other, and one who loved her cousin. “He loves you,” she said quietly.

Mollified, Juliet relaxed against the arm of the couch, feet stretching onto Rosaline’s lap. She gathered them up like she had when they were kids, skidding her thumb across Juliet’s anklebone to soothe her to sleep. The silence stretched softly.

“I love him too,” Juliet whispered, voice thin.

Rosaline’s hand stilled. Whenever her cousin said those words, they carried an air of exhilaration, like she was caught up in some illicit passion and that was half the fun. She’d never said them like this, raw and real and afraid.

“Then why haven’t you told your parents?”

Tears glistened in her cousin’s eyes. Rosaline regretted them, but not the question.

“They’re going to hate him,” she said miserably. Privately, Rosaline agreed. “They’ll start throwing politicians and future CEOs at me, and Mom will gobble up every second of my free time, and I’ll never see Romeo again.”

 _Can you really love him if you won’t stand beside him?_ The thought felt unfair, but Rosaline didn’t care. She remembered a photograph, faded and folded and hidden away: Giuliana Capulet, the spitting image of her daughter at nineteen, smiling rapturously at a man she’d abandon before the month was out.

She chose her words carefully, mindful of how her cousin’s temper flared when challenged. “Isn’t it worth it, if you really love him? To stop worrying about who might catch you and plaster it all over the internet?”

Her cousin scoffed. “Please. Dad would murder Romeo and chop up the body. He hates the Montagues as much as you do.”

Suddenly, Rosaline had a vice grip on Juliet’s ankle. That old feeling rose in her chest, pushing past her weakened defenses, bringing bile and the acrid taste of alcohol to her tongue. She swallowed hard, trying not to retch.

Juliet struggled into a sitting position, suddenly intent. “I know you think I’m too young to know better, but I’m not stupid, Rose. I know what his grandfather did to your dad. To your family.”

Rosaline’s breath felt untenable, rattling through her chest. She closed her eyes, sinking into memories as her lashes bled and stuck together. Pancakes at sunrise, Dad heavy-lidded but smiling after his shift, the tang of sweat thick and comforting in her nose. Mom putting a hammer in her hand, tickling her as she teased, “Now, baby, you can’t sit around and wait for a man to fix it for you. Sometimes you have to white knight your fella.” The look on her mother’s face when she’d asked, “When did you white knight Dad?” That same look, leached of color and composure, as she and Livia pried the phone from their mother’s hand.

“They murdered him.” It wasn’t true, not exactly, but it felt like it was. Two people had died outside of Montague house that night, but a third had lost his life.

“You don’t believe that. You can’t.”

Rosaline shook her head, feeling bile slosh in her stomach and creep back up her throat.

“And even if you _did,”_ Juliet insisted, covering Rosaline’s clenched hands with her own, “you can’t blame Romeo for something his family did.”

“I don’t—I’m not—” But the lie refused to leave her tongue. “They started it,” she said blackly as tears burned on her cheeks. “That Montague murdered Elena Capulet and got himself killed, and they prosecuted Dad for trying to defend her. They forced him to waste away in factories because nobody wants a felon at Fortune 500 company. They—”

 _—got him killed. Even if they didn’t kill him._ The words lodged in her throat.

“Romeo didn’t,” Juliet said gently, firmly. “Blaming him for it is just as unfair as what they did.”

It wasn’t the same, not at all.

“Why can’t you let me hate them?” Rosaline hated the pleading in her voice, like she was 15 again, watching her mother spiral into grief, leaving her and Livia to muddle through alone. “I’m _right_ to hate them.” 

Juliet’s face crumpled. “Oh, Rose.”

She gathered her cousin into her arms like Rosaline had always done for her, for Livia, for her mother before she was gone, rocking her back and forth and murmuring soft, soothing nothings into her ear. Juliet held her, letting her cry, until finally, Rosaline let herself cry too.

 

* * *

 

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Rosaline stared at her phone, aghast. If she stared at it long enough, could she find some less terrible meaning?

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/36972079373/in/album-72157687749203163/)

 

She stared at her phone, waiting for him to say more, waiting for the magic words to materialize that would make it better. As if anything could make it better.

 

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She hesitated, wondering how much to tell him. How much he’d care.

 

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Her fingers curled around her phone, heart thudding almost painfully as she awaited judgment she somehow knew wouldn’t come.

 

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Rosaline’s heart fluttered, careening past an instinctive fear and heading straight to nervous excitement. Her fingers danced across the keyboard—' _okay’_ or maybe _‘about damn time’—_ but her mind stuck their texts, his ex and Escalus and—

The buzz of her phone jolted through her veins like lightning, crashing into thunder when she bit her lip and firmly rejected the call. Blood whispered in her ears, an angry chorus, and infinity seemed to pass while she waited for the call screen to fade.

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/37643880461/in/album-72157687749203163/)

 

What the hell did _that_ mean? He couldn’t be implying . . .

But Rosaline knew with a sudden, swift clarity that she wasn’t the only one whose heart leapt every time they exchanged a text.

 

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The front door opened and Rosaline pressed her phone against her stomach, hiding him from the world. Forcing the lump from her throat, she cleared it quietly.

“Liv?”

The _snick_ of the door latch echoed through the apartment once—twice—again before the door thudded into the frame. Alarm coursed through her. Dropping her phone, Rosaline hurried into the cramped living room. Her sister stood by the door, bloody and shaking.

“Livia!”

Rosaline was at her side in an instant, wrapping her arms around her, tucking her close, away from harm. Common sense elbowed its way through the haze of fear. Pulling back, she scanned for injuries, turning Livia this way and that, as if one might have materialized the second she looked away.

“Did I hurt you? Where are you bleeding?”

“It’s fine, Rosaline, I’m not—it was—” Blinking, Livia took in her sister’s appearance, eyes bright and hair frizzed by frustrated fingers. “Are you okay?”

“Am _I_ okay?” she repeated, incredulous. “Livia, what happened?” Her thumb swept her sister’s cheek, and tears welled in its wake like seawater when sand was scooped from the shore.

“I— ” Livia’s breath hitched, stuttered, and seemed to stop altogether.

Rosaline led her to the couch and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders.

“It wasn’t anything, really,” her sister finally managed. “These guys came in to adopt some dogs. But they wanted so many, big breeds, and— ”

“A fighting ring?” It had happened before, once, but it had never come close to bloodshed.

Livia’s whole body hitched then, and Rosaline’s heart wrenched. Checking again to make sure there were no wounds visible beneath the bloody streaks on her shirt, she tucked her sister against her side like their mother had when they were small.

She tried to keep her voice steady, but anger and fear shook the edges. “Did you call the cops?”

Livia made a faint noise of assent. “The men forced their way into the back,” she said at last, “and Falstaff got out of his kennel and—”

“Are you _sure_ you aren’t hurt?”

Livia nodded against her sister’s neck. “Par—” She swallowed hard and tried again. “Someone came in, and the men bolted.” She shuddered, and tears dripped onto Rosaline’s collarbone. “I don’t know if the cops caught them.”

“Who’s blood is it, Livia?”

“Falstaff’s.” Another sob wracked her body, all the more violent as she fought to keep it contained. “There was nothing I could do.”

Rosaline clutched her tighter, rocking slowly until Livia cried herself out.

“You can’t work there anymore, Livia,” she said much later, as she scrubbed blood from her sister’s arms with a wet rag.

Livia was already shaking her head. “It was a bad night. I’ll be fine tomorrow.”

Rosaline tried to make her tone reasonable, but fear ate at her, making the edges sharp and rough. “And what if they come back? You got lucky. Next time someone else might not be there.”

“It wasn’t just _someone,_ Rosaline.” Livia sniffled, giving her sister a shaky smile. “Are you ready to hear about my boyfriend?”

 

* * *

 

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* * *

 

Rosaline’s arm ached from holding the gold filigree stem that kept her mask in place. She should’ve chosen one with elastic, but Juliet had protested about her hair, and Livia had pointed out that the gold accentuated the details on her dress, and they had both promptly ditched her for spring break getaways with their boyfriends, leaving her to work the crowd with Uncle Silv as a stand-in Juliet.

“My daughter wishes she could have made it,” her uncle was saying to Mrs. Ruspoli, “but she committed to a trip with her sorority sisters, and my daughter holds to her word.”

“Juliet is a sweet girl,” the woman said. She dropped her mask, eyes crinkling at the corners. “She deserves a break with her girlfriends. I remember trips to the coast with my sisters. Those are the days that stay with you.”

Silvestro nodded, catching Rosaline’s eye expectantly.

Having as little experience with Capulet Beach House as Juliet, she moved onto the next most accessible topic. “Livia tells me you’ve got a manchester terrier?”

“Oh, yes, Fitz! Who knew such a little thing could have so much energy?” Mrs. Ruspoli flourished her mask, pantomiming a puppy dancing around the floor. It caught the light with a telltale sparkle. “We got him from a breeder up North, but of course, we couldn’t have done it without Livia’s help. Your sister’s as sweet as her cousin.”

Mrs. Ruspoli babbled on about her dog until the waiter came around with the hor d'oeuvres, giving them an excuse to disengage. Her uncle honed in on Cosimo Prince, who’d managed to secure a few moments alone with his children.

“Come, Rosaline,” he said impatiently, catching her elbow when her feet started to drag. “You’re friends with the Prince children, aren’t you?”

“Friends” was a loose term for her relationship with any Prince but Mercutio these days.

“Ah, Rosaline,” greeted the source of her awkwardness with Isabella. Tessa Montague insinuated herself into their path with a practiced swish of her black ball gown, stirring the long, crimson ribbons that wove the mask into her hair and trailed down to her waist. The relish in her voice curled through Rosaline’s stomach like cigarette smoke, unwelcome and faintly nauseating. “I hoped I might see you here tonight. We have quite a lot of business to discuss.”

Uncle Silvestro puffed up like a fish, all spiked shoulders and pinched features. He angled forward, insinuating himself between Rosaline and Tessa. Once, she might have believed he was actually worried about her. Now it just grated. “What business could you possibly have with my niece?”

The sickening smoke in her stomach snapped taut, shooting panic through her. If her uncle found out about the internship, it wouldn’t matter how well the woman paid. He’d pull their tuition and she and her sister would wind up college dropouts, never mind med school.

She stepped between them, casting around the room for an escape. A familiar face caught her eye, flat and strangely resigned against a backdrop of dancing couples.

“Benvolio!” she announced, snatching the out.

She hadn’t meant for him to hear, but the exclamation cut through the low babble that separated them. He looked up from a conversation with an unpleasant-looking man— _Romeo’s dad,_ she thought; Romeo had clearly leached the pleasant qualities from _that_ gene pool—and Benvolio’s brows dipped beneath his mask as his eyes met hers across the room. His gaze slid sideways, fixing on their relatives. So did hers.

“I’m friends with Ms. Montague’s nephew,” she said, smiling at her uncle as if that weren’t the biggest lie she’d ever told. But then again, maybe it wasn’t. The words came startlingly easy.

“Yes,” Tessa agreed with a controlled sort of amusement, “my nephew can’t stop babbling about the incomparable Rosaline Capulet.” The word “incomparable” twisted oddly until Rosaline couldn’t tell if it were insult or compliment or omen. Tessa let a smile crack her composure, eyes flicking to Rosaline in gentle rebuke. “And she’s quite close with my protégé, Isabella, as well. Your niece has a talent for networking, it would seem.”

Rosaline fought to keep the grimace from her face. _Isabella._ Why hadn’t she thought of Isabella?

“Yes, Rosaline and Isabella are dear friends,” her uncle said. “In fact, she’s close with _all_ of the Princes.”

The implication glanced off her, and for the first time, the pain didn’t linger.

“How strange, then,” said Tessa, “that your family has thrown their support behind Paris Mantua in the election.”

“Mantua?” he repeated blankly, and the woman sauntered towards the opportunity, presented on its gleaming platter.

“Didn’t your wife tell you? He’s dating your niece. It’s all over town.”

His eyes flicked to Rosaline, but the look on her face quickly convinced him of her innocence. “Livia? And Paris?”

Tessa affected a regretful expression. “If you can’t even manage your household, it’s no wonder your business is floundering.”

“I’ll have you know—” he began, all haughty disdain, and suddenly Benvolio was at Rosaline’s elbow, and she was jerked from the conversation by the strange relief she felt at having him there. “—lucrative international business deal, the details of which I will not share with a _Montague.”_

“Aunt Tessa,” Benvolio broke in, paying no mind to Silvestro Capulet’s affronted expression. “When did you slither out of your nest?”

She inclined her head, mouth twisting with mild distaste. “Always a delight, nephew. It’s hard to imagine why no one but Damiano wants you.”

Rosaline started. She was no stranger to that particular brand of thoughtless vitriol, but she was usually on the receiving end. She stole a glance at Benvolio, but if the barb had lodged, he hid it well. His face was curiously blank, a dull reflection of the expression she’d seen when he was with his uncle.

“We were just discussing your close, personal friendship with Miss Capulet.” Tessa smiled at Silvestro, clearly enjoying the way he purpled. “It’s good to see that some members of your family have seen the writing on the wall. Montague & Montague is the future.”

“If you think I’m going to stand here and listen to you slander my family name—”

“Why not?” she interjected. “You’ve been doing it for years.”

Benvolio’s hand alighted on Rosaline’s back with the barest pressure. Her stomach stumbled at the unexpected touch, righting itself as he smiled politely at their aunt and uncle.

“If you’ll excuse us,” he said, inclining his head toward Rosaline, _“my friend_ has promised me a dance.”

In any other circumstance she might have lodged an elbow in his ribs, but with his aunt and her uncle peering at them like vultures about to tussle over roadkill, she bit her tongue. Not bothering to excuse herself, she let Benvolio steer her through the milling crowd with a vapid expression of politeness on her face that couldn’t look any worse than his. It was only when they broke through the edge of polite chatter that she balked.

“You don’t actually expect me to dance.” The words were incredulous, caught between a question and a laugh, but Benvolio wasn’t swayed by either.

“You don’t actually expect they’ve stopped watching?” he mimicked, nodding his head the way they’d come. She didn’t bother to look; she could feel them weighing her from across the room.

“Come on, Capulet. If I can suffer through a conversation with my aunt, you can suffer through half a song.”

With a roll of her eyes, she turned into him, realizing as his fingers trailed her waist that his hand was still there. It flexed on her hip like it wasn’t quite sure how it had gotten there.

“I hope you’re a better dancer than liar,” she said, resting her mask on his shoulder as her free hand met his. His hand was warm and faintly chapped, and she thought she felt a splatter of paint in the crease of his thumb. He moved them into the twirling crowd, and she fell in step on instinct.

“Like you’re any better. We’re ‘close, personal friends’ now?” He leaned into her, teasing, inching forward with every adjective. A smug smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

It might have been the burn of irritation or embarrassment that sent a flush crawling up her neck. It didn’t matter. She raised her chin, secure in the knowledge that he’d never notice.

 _“My friend_ Rosaline?” she asked archly.

“They bought it,” he said, but he couldn’t hide his flush as he straightened abruptly.

“Barely,” she allowed, but she was more amused than anything. She hadn’t realized how tense she’d been, paraded around by her uncle like a bronze medal barely worth the effort of polishing.

Unable to gain the upper hand honorably, he twisted her into a complicated spin. Years of practice kept her body in sync with his, and for a second she forgot who she was dancing with. Laughter bubbled out of her, stomach swooping as she arced back into him.

“I didn’t know you could laugh, Capulet,” he murmured into her ear. She rolled her shoulders, chasing off the sensation. And then she was spinning back out, twirling, letting him draw her back into a basic box step.

“I could find other things to laugh about,” she said, a little out of breath. His expression was curious and a little daring, eyes dancing in time to their steps. “Your mask, for one. You look like Zorro.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You shouldn’t.”

He chewed on that, maneuvering them around a couple who’d just stopped dancing with some degree of grace.

“At least I haven’t sprained my wrist holding up this monstrosity.” He shrugged a shoulder, jostling the mask in her hand. “Haven’t you ever been to a masquerade before? People only wear those in movies.”

The motion reminded her how much her arm hurt. “Yeah, well, beauty is pain, or so they tell me.”

“You would know,” he murmured.

She opened her mouth, retort on her tongue . . . and froze, staring up at him. His tongue flicked out to taste the words on his lips, unsure if he’d really said them. Their feet stumbled in time, eyes caught together. Then Benvolio swallowed and smoothed his steps, guiding her back into the melody.

“Come on, Capulet,” he said with forced nonchalance, “I have eyes.”

“And two left feet,” she added, though it was patently untrue. He protested, as she knew he would, and the tension dissipated with the next turn.

When the music drifted toward a new tune, he led her off the dance floor as promised. She was a little offended at how quickly his hand fell from her waist, but relieved too. Mostly relieved.

She caught sight of Tessa Montague’s sly smile across the ballroom, just beside Isabella’s curious one.

“Drink?” Her voice was high and a little too loud. She barely waited for his nod before steering him through the crowd to the bar. Casting a wary eye at her expression, the bartender poured more liquor into her glass than the drink warranted. She sipped it gratefully while Benvolio ordered.

“I’m curious,” he said, swirling his cocktail as they meandered to a less crowded corner of the room. “What was so bad that I seemed like an appealing alternative?”

She looked over her shoulder, but Tessa and Isabella had melted into the crowd. Rosaline tipped back her drink, downing half the glass before admitting, “I accepted an internship with your aunt.”

His mask of casual curiosity burned away, poisoning the air between them. “You’re going to work for that snake?”

Her defenses flared, bolstered by the look on his face. “Spare me the lecture, Montague. Not all of us get hand-me-down Lexuses when their cousins level up.”

She was itching to argue, to unleash her frustrations on someone she wouldn't scare off with a waspish tongue, but he failed to rise to the occasion. His eyes caught hers almost roughly as he leaned forward, lowering his voice so no one would overhear.

“Capulet, you don’t want to work for my aunt.”

“You’re right. I don’t.” All the buoyancy of their dance had bobbed away. “But what I want never seems to matter.” Raising her mask jauntily, she made to sweep away. Benvolio caught her elbow, stopping her feet.

“I’m serious. Aunt Tessa’s a grasping, power-hungry she-devil. She never makes a decision without working an angle, and every word out of her mouth is a lie.”

“As opposed to the rest of you?” The insult lacked bite, flung on reflex, but it clearly struck home.

Swallowing down what was sure to be a rude retort, his fingers tightened on her arm, insistent instead of commanding. “You don’t have to like me. But if you trust me at all . . .” He shook his head, dismissing it as a lost cause.

But she did trust him, somehow. The realization caught in her throat, making it hard to breathe.

“Just be careful, Capulet.”

He was gone before she recovered her voice.

 

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Rosaline's phone flashed on the desk. She snatched it up, ignoring the _pop-pop-pop_ of her spine as she moved after sitting still for so long.

**Unknown Caller**

She rubbed the heel of her hand against her eyes, feeling the phone’s vibrations shiver up her elbow. It was nearly 2 am, and she’d been squinting at her laptop since well before dinner, searching fruitlessly for some way out of this mess with Tessa Montague that wouldn’t leave her sister SOL.

It was probably Uncle Silv calling to remind her to check on his house staff, indifferent to the sleeping habits of those currently stateside.

The phone went silent, staring up at her blankly.

It rang again.

With a growing sense of unease, she remembered Juliet’s Snapchat. She wouldn’t put it past her aunt to blame _her_ for their whole relationship, as if she could’ve done anything to stop it. The Jaws of Life couldn’t pry those lovebirds apart.

Silence.

Then a flash of backlight and a low, insistent buzzing.

**Unknown Caller**

Groaning, she resigned herself to a ruined night. “Hello?”

“Is this Rosaline Capulet?”

The dread turned to lead, plunking into her gut. “Yes. Who is this?”

That calm, detached voice didn’t change a whit. “Miss Capulet, I’m calling on behalf of Padua General. I have you listed as the emergency contact for Juliet Capulet.”


	5. the ides of march

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your patience, everyone. I know I left y'all on a cliffhanger, but life has gotten hectic & this chapter just would not behave. TBH I could spend another 3 weeks on it without feeling like I did it justice, but I've decided to stop tormenting myself & Rose & all of my lovely readers and just post the damn thing.
> 
> Aaaand I decided to split the chapter. Again. So we're up to 7! :P

“What do you mean you can’t rent to anyone under 25?”

The man couldn’t fully hide his annoyance beneath a patronizing, customer service explanation. “For liability reasons— ”

Rosaline hung up. Dialing her uncle again, she put the phone on speaker and set it on the counter, refreshing the webpage on her browser. The bus schedule was even bleaker than the outbound flights. Maybe if she caught an Uber to the train station . . .

“I’m unavailable to take your call,” her uncle announced, tinny and placid. “For immediate assistance, please contact the offices of Cap— ”

She hit ‘end’ and pulled up her contacts, fingers clumsy in her haste. _Isabella,_ she thought, but Isabella was in Venice. She hit the E’s, a reflex she couldn’t quite shake. Surely Escalus would be there in an instant, knowing that she needed him so desperately. If it got her to Juliet, she’d beg a ride from that damned Montague’s ghost.

Her phone scrolled up and up and up, too far, until it landed solidly between B and C.

_Cad._

Her breath grew heavy, skidding into her lungs like a boulder tumbling downhill. She’d never met him, hardly knew him, but her chest filled with an inexplicable yearning to be comforted by the cadence of his voice.

Her finger hit ‘send’ before her brain could latch onto all the reasons she shouldn’t. Two rings, shivering up her spine, and then—

"Hello?"

His voice zipped through her like a pinball machine, banging from bone to tender muscle and back again until it dropped between her ribs and plonked into her stomach. She knew that voice, though she’d never heard it so disoriented, rough with irritation at being pulled from sleep.

_"Montague?"_

Their breathing clashed in the sudden stillness. His bafflement at hearing her on the line couldn’t compare to hers at finding him there. The silence stretched and slackened and pulled taut again, their breathing out of tempo, so her lungs seemed to expand with his discarded air.

"Capulet?" he finally managed. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"Sorry, I must have— " She didn't remember putting his number into her phone, but she must have hit it somehow. Maybe Juliet—  

_Juliet._

"I have to go."

"What's wrong?" His voice was muffled, distant, the phone already drawn away from her ear, but his blatant concern curled around her hand like a physical thing, stopping her from hanging up.

“It’s my cousin,” she found herself saying. “Something’s happened.”

“Juliet? Is she okay? I haven’t heard . . .” He trailed off, and they both followed the thought to its natural conclusion.

 _Romeo._ Why hadn’t she thought of Romeo? He’d know what happened to Jules.

Unless . . .

Her fears bled into Benvolio’s voice, fraying it at the edges. “What can I do?”

The sob she’d been holding at bay hitched in her chest.

“Capulet?” He sounded truly alarmed now, while she fought to stifle the welling terror. There was no time for terror.

“There was an accident. I don’t know— I can’t get ahold of anyone, and I don’t have a car; there are no busses or flights . . .”

The fear worked its way up her chest, lodging in her throat. She broke off, swallowing hard, but it lingered like a hand around her neck. She wasn't going to make it to Jules in time.

On her laptop, the bus schedule stared at her, accusing. Reflexively, she hit enter, refreshing the page. The 3:40 am bus from Mantua to Padua had been delayed. If she could get ahold of Livia, there might be time—

“Where are you?” Benvolio asked. “I’m coming to get you.”

 

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She woke to a dull throbbing behind her eyes. Headlights flashed through the gray predawn, the first flickers of daily life. Groaning, she shifted in her seat, trying to work the kinks from her shoulders.

"Where are we?"

Benvolio glanced at her. His profile made a sharp relief against the window, shadowed and tense on a backdrop of violent violet. His hair stuck up in every direction, worked by worried fingers, but the sharp tick in his jaw—which had sprung to life when Romeo’s phone went straight to voicemail—had finally eased while she slept.

"Just outside of Padua." He glanced at his phone on the dash mount. Her eyes followed his to the GPS. "Twenty minutes.”

She nodded, then turned to watch the flash of strangers' headlights. It felt discordant, watching them head off to work as if the whole world wasn’t dangling by the thinnest of threads.

"When we get there..." she began, but she didn’t know where to take the thought. Her mind shied away from their destination, content to toe the precipice a little while longer.

"I'll drop you off at the door," he said. "Find somewhere to park."

Politeness prodded her to argue, but she ignored it.

"I'll text you the floor," she said instead. "I don't know how much they'll tell me about Romeo, but . . ." There was nothing to say about that either.

"My uncle called while you were asleep. He’s on his way.”

“Did they tell him anything?”

“Romeo’s in surgery. I’m in charge of all medical decisions until my uncle arrives." He gave a humorless laugh. "I think it might actually kill him, trusting me with that."

She latched onto that, tired of running circles of 'what ifs' while they awaited the inevitable. "You and your uncle don’t get along?"

He snorted, and his hand found his hair again. "I get along with him fine. He's the one that hates me." His fingers drifted back to the wheel, gripping until his knuckles were white.

Rosaline remembered his face at the masquerade, talking to his uncle across a sea of friendly politic. He’d almost looked like another person, robbed of the freedom of expression that always let you know where you stood.

"I know what you mean," she said. He glanced at her, and she shrugged, seatbelt digging into her neck. "My aunt’s the one who hates me—and she's welcome to it. I'm not too fond of her either." Understatement of the century. "But my uncle just . . . lets it happen. Sometimes I think that's worse."

"Let's start a club, Capulet. Orphans with terrible uncles."

It was an awful joke, but somehow a laugh burst free, sharp and a little hysterical. "I have a friend who might join," she said, thinking of Cad’s thinly veiled complaints about his family.

 _Cad._ For a moment, she entertained the possibility of what might’ve happened if she hadn’t hit the wrong number. Would he have jumped out of bed to drive her across state lines? Or would she have rung through to voicemail, growing more and more panicked with each sharp ring?

She pushed away the thought, refocusing on the present.

"And my sister,” she added, “if we could get her to admit it."

Benvolio shook his head, fingers relaxing on the steering wheel. "Good luck with that. Livia would forgive anyone anything."

Guilt tugged at her, a distant memory of accusing her sister of just that. And here she was, depending on a Montague on one of the worst nights of her life, and never doubting him for a second.

“Did you get ahold of her?”

She shook her head. The little dot that announced her sister’s location hadn’t budged, but she would’ve killed for one of the read receipts Jules liked to joke would ruin Livia’s life one day.

“I hope she and Paris are having fun,” she said ungraciously, but part of her truly did. She wouldn’t wish this uncertainty on her for anything.

They lapsed back into silence as the darkness melted into pink and orange and a pale, soft lavender. Sunlight slanted across Benvolio’s face, and for the first time, she realized how haggard he looked, bruises smudged under eyes that were bloodshot from exhaustion or tears.

“Are you alright? To drive,” she clarified, realizing what a stupid question that was.

Benvolio huffed away her concerns, like he didn’t resemble a zombie from Mercutio’s latest film project. “Come on, Capulet. Haven’t you ever pulled an all-nighter? I swear you’re the only person on campus who goes to bed before the fun starts.”

“It’s not an all-nighter if you sleep first,” she said, but her heart wasn't it. She thumbed her ring finger absently. "Did Romeo text you last night?"

"A terrible idea.” His voice was as strained as her thoughts. “They’ve taken spring break impulsiveness to a new level of stupid.”

She wondered if he, too, yearned for the chance to stand in a gray-washed government office and argue about it while his cousin did exactly as he pleased.

"My family still doesn't know.” Mountains rose before them, deceptively benign with their snow-dusted peaks and emerging patches of green. She glanced into the side mirror, watching white lines flicker and vanish, one by one. “Or maybe they do. She was supposed to call them.”

Angry parents. Winding roads. It wasn’t hard to draw conclusions.

"They've only known each other four months."

Rosaline blinked, counting back. It felt like years since the night Montague had played her white knight; since Romeo had claimed the spot next to Jules at the cramped kitchen table, friends in tow. It had become her new normal, unwelcome and grating, but the thought of losing it made her press her lips together, eyes stinging.

"What are the chances of a long engagement?" she asked, if only to believe that there was still an engagement to be dealt with.

"Roughly equivalent to the chances of you sticking around once me and ‘Cutio show up."

"Damn it."

Amusement glinted across his face like oil on asphalt, a colorful sheen no more than surface-deep. It masked the shadows under his eyes as he watched her in his periphery. She mustered a smile from somewhere and, just for a moment, stopped thinking of _how_ and _why_ and _what now?_

The GPS announced their exit, startling her. Her eyes fixed on the access road that curved toward the hospital and disappeared into the trees. The staticky feeling she'd been holding at bay crackled back to life, shivering through her veins to make her fingers shake.

And then they were still, wrapped in his. The lightning in her chest flared and dissipated, driven off by the shock of Montague—Benvolio—holding her hand. It was palpable, the effort it took him not to clench his fingers until hers were twisted and tangled, but he kept his grip lightly reassuring, thumb curling in to press against the center of her palm.

"They'll be okay.” The conviction in his voice was almost enough to make her believe it. “They’re too damn stubborn not to be."

She didn't untangle their hands to take his properly. She didn't untangle their hands at all. And when the tears dripped from her chin to splash onto their skin, he gave her what privacy he could.

 

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“Miss Capulet?”

The nurse approached her slowly, as if she might startle. Rosaline surged to her feet, realizing too late that she’d dragged Benvolio up with her. She dropped his sleeve, but he followed her anyway, meeting the man halfway.

“Miss Capulet, may I speak with you in private?”

The balding man dismissed Benvolio with a polite nod. He glanced at Rosaline, shifting awkwardly. “If you need me, Capulet, I’ll be—”

“—staying,” she finished, catching his arm to keep him there. He looked at her, surprised, and her chin jerked up, daring either of them to object. It was stupid, maybe, but it felt wrong to send him away.

The nurse gave her an apologetic look, glancing over his shoulder as if his supervisor might be watching. “I’m sorry, Miss Capulet, but I’m afraid I can’t disclose medical information to non-family members.”

“You won’t be." It wasn’t even a lie. Not if he’d brought the news she hoped for.

She avoided catching Benvolio's eyes, but the nurse was staring at her hand, which was clasped so tightly around Benvolio’s arm that the imprint of her fingers might be forever seared onto his skin.

“Tell me about Juliet. Is she alright? Is she stable?”

The man nodded, evidently deciding to take her at her word. “She’s been sedated. She’s a little groggy, but—”

Her heart rate kicked up a notch. “Sedated? Why was she sedated?” Everything from a head trauma to a collapsed lung flashed through her mind, condensing into a razor-sharp focus on the nurse, who looked vaguely annoyed about the interruption.

“She was getting too emotional.”

“Too _emotional?”_ she repeated, voice high. “She almost _died.”_

“But she didn’t,” Benvolio said. "I told you she was stubborn, Capulet."

His hand closed around hers, gently prying, and she realized her fingernails were digging into his skin. She pulled her hand away, crossing her arms tightly.

“So she's stable?” she confirmed, refusing to give into the heady hope that shook the edges of her words. Not until she knew for sure. “She's going to be okay?”

“She should make a full recovery. The sedation was for her own safety,” said the nurse, attempting to mollify her. “We couldn't have her jostling her injuries. But she’s awake now if you’d like to see her.”

“Juliet's awake?” Relief swept through her, sending her reeling. Benvolio stepped forward to steady her, and she found herself turning, searching his eyes for confirmation.

“She’s awake, Rosaline.” His smile wavered, unsteady with relief. She found herself swaying into him as a smile bumped up against her cheeks.

“Her injuries were fairly minor,” added the nurse. “We called in a plastic surgeon to suture a laceration on her cheek. Long, but not too deep.” He traced the skin beside his temple to the underside of his chin. “The orthopedic surgeon set her leg. She’ll be in a cast for 6-8 weeks, but with a few days rest, she’ll be cleared to move around again. Within reason,” he added with a tinge of annoyance.

Benvolio peered hopefully over Rosaline's shoulder. “Her passenger. Do you know anything about—?”

“I’m sorry, if you want to know about another patient, you’ll have to check with his or her care team.” As if they’d done anything but bombard him with medical jargon while he signed his cousin's life over to Padua General Hospital. “Juliet is room 317. You can see her now, if you’ll follow me?”

He ambled down the hall without another word. Rosaline made to follow, then stopped, looking at the chair in the corner, where Benvolio's jacket had slumped halfway to the floor.

“Benvolio . . .” Her fingers found the inside of his elbow, curling into his shirt as they decided whether to push him back into the waiting room or pull him after her.

“Are you coming, Miss Capulet?” The nurse poked his head around the corner, looking vaguely perturbed.

“You should stay,” she decided. “Wait for news.”

“Come on, Capulet, I’m not abandoning you now.”

“The doctor could show up any minute. You should be here when she does.”

She pushed on his arm, prodding him toward the chair. He caught her fingers, and she realized his were clammy.

“This isn’t a three-hour surgery, okay? The papers have been signed; they don’t need me for anything. Please, I—” He glanced over his shoulder, not toward the chairs they’d claimed all those hours ago, but at a painting she hadn’t noticed hanging behind the nurses' station. “I can’t wait by myself, okay?

"Unless . . .” He dropped her hand as a thought occurred to him. “If you’d rather see her by yourself, I understand.”

She should. When she finally saw her cousin, banged up and exhausted but _alive,_ her tenuous hold on her composure would break. The thought of Benvolio Montague standing there, bearing witness to such an intimate moment, should've made her agree in a heartbeat.

But she didn't. She stopped trying to push him away and pulled instead. “Juliet would murder me from her hospital bed if she found out I left you here. Besides, you need something to report to Romeo when he wakes up.”

_When he wakes up. When._

They hurried after the nurse, turning the corner, then another. They walked down an endless hall, dodging hospital carts, to the last door on the left. And there she was, tears on her lashes and color in her cheeks, propped against a pile of pillows as big as she was.

“Juliet!” Rosaline was across the room in an instant, cupping the uninjured side of her cousin's face. Her thumb swept across her cheek, feeling warm skin, faint scratches, and the wet patchwork of saltwater that promised she was still here.

“Rosaline?” Juliet muttered. Her pupils dilated and contracted, struggling to focus. When they finally fixed on her cousin, she sighed her name again, an exhale of pure relief. _“Rosaline.”_

Rosaline sat gingerly on the bed, counting bruises. She gave half an ear to the nurse, who was enumerating a long list of things not to do. _Don’t jostle the patient, don’t remove the bandages, don’t, don't, don't . . ._

Tears leaked from her cousin's eyes onto her thumb. She turned her hand to catch them on her knuckle, but she couldn't keep up, and then _her_ tears spilled over, hot and insistent on her cheeks.

“Jules, you’re okay. You’re okay.” She pulled back, stilling. "You _are_ okay, aren't you?”

Juliet made a heart-wrenching sound, eyes squeezing shut. “Romeo . . .”

The nurse cleared his throat. “I’ll tell the attending physician the family has arrived.”

Rosaline glance over to hurry him on his way and caught sight of Benvolio by the door.

“Romeo’s fine, Jules,” she said, silently asking him to back her up.

He shook himself out of his thoughts and approached the bed, pausing by the chair as if unsure how far his welcome extended. She reached out and pulled him closer. Her hand felt strange when she let go, like a child’s balloon released in a moment of distraction, bobbing away toward the clouds. She clasped both hands around Juliet’s, careful not to jostle her IV.

“’s not _fine,_ Rose.” Juliet’s words slurred, but the anger behind them bled through. “Nothing’s fine.”

Rosaline reached up, smoothing the hair back from her cousin’s temple. “He _will_ be. The doctors are helping him.”

“He’s not going to leave—” Benvolio’s voice cracked, and he swallowed back whatever else he’d been going to say.

“'m his fiancée,” Juliet accused. “They told me ever’thing they told Ben.”

The tick in his jaw jerked back to life, and his eyes fixed on the ceiling like he could see through cinder block and steel to the room where Romeo fought to come back to them.

“Then you know the doctors are doing everything they can,” Rosaline said gently, trying to soothe them both. “His dad called in the best surgeon in the country. And you know what they say: no news is good news.”

“There’s internal bleeding,” Juliet sobbed, “in his _brain."_ She turned her face into the pillow, grimacing as the motion jarred her stitches. The wince devolved into a fresh wave of tears, and then she was a mess of pain, physical and emotional all bleeding together.

Rosaline caught her chin, trying to keep her touch soft. “Juliet, you can’t— Juliet!”

But Juliet wasn’t listening. “We were supposed to get married!” Her fingers fumbled for the blanket, as if she meant to throw it off and march upstairs to ICU. “And now I might never see him again!”

“He’s not going to die,” Rosaline said firmly, reaching across Juliet to pin her arm to the bed. “They’re not going to let him.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Juliet wailed, struggling. “You don’t know that. You _can’t.”_

Rosaline glanced up, helpless, and found tears painting Benvolio’s cheeks too. She didn’t think it was possible to hurt anymore, but her heart staggered at the sight. She glanced back at Juliet, who was starting to bleed through her bandage.

“I’ll get the nurse,” he offered, voice thick.

The man arrived quickly, uncapping a needle with his teeth and threading it into the IV line. Juliet’s cries faltered, then faded away as she slipped into unconsciousness. Rosaline sat in the stiff plastic chair while people in colorful scrubs descended on the room, rebandaging her wound and checking Juliet's charts. Finally, they retreated, leaving her alone with her cousin and the endless beeping of the machines.

The dam broke and she cried, pouring out fear and exhaustion and helplessness until she felt like a muddy riverbed, churned and drained and useless to anyone. Using the sleeve of her sweater to scrub her face clean, she scooted closer to the bed and fished out her phone to start another wave of unread texts.

It was a long time before she realized Benvolio had never come back.

 

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Juliet lay motionless in her hospital bed, arms laid out at her sides, hair smoothed almost prettily around her bandage by some well-intentioned nurse. Only the rhythmic beeping of the monitor betrayed her beating heart.

Rosaline pushed to her feet, unable to sit still a second longer.

 

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The phone jerked to life in her hands. Her resentment flared, fed by the endless hours of waiting, fingers aching from clutching her phone, while she wondered if anyone in her family even cared.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the hall.

“Hello?”

“Is Juliet alright? What happened? Where are you? I need to know exactly—”

Uncle Silv broke off with a protest, and then it was Aunt Giuliana hissing into her ear. “What have you done to my daughter? Tell me she’s okay, Rosaline. _Tell me.”_

Rosaline started walking, distancing herself from the small, petty part of her that wanted to withhold information from this woman who had never done a thing to earn it.

“She’s okay. She woke up earlier.”

Her aunt’s accusations melted into a sob of relief, fading to the background as her uncle came back on the line.

“What happened?” he demanded. “Where are you? Giuliana—no, get up.” There was a beep, and suddenly his voice was muffled, distant. “Call Pietro and have him prep the jet. Rosaline, I want to speak with her attending physician.”

She sucked her cheek, resigning herself to an arduous conversation. “She’s not available.”

“Not a—” he trailed off, muttering complaints.

“She does have other patients,” she reminded, picking her way across the waiting room. Reason was quickly drowned out by her aunt, who’d recovered from her relief enough to offer an objection.

Arriving at their little corner, she found Benvolio’s jacket piled in his chair, but no Benvolio. She picked it up, leather warm in her hand as she searched the room. She spotted him at the nurses' station speaking with a soft-faced RN who wore an unruffled expression. Dropping into her chair, she draped his jacket over the armrest, taking an odd sort of comfort in the way it pushed into her space, crowding her chair.

“—hasn’t even told us where she is!” She jerked the phone from her ear as her aunt and uncle’s argument reached a crescendo.

“I could, if you’d bother to _listen.”_

Ignoring their affront, she soldiered on, filling them in as best as she could. _Yes, Juliet is resting comfortably. No, there’s no permanent damage. Are you seriously asking about scarring right now?_

When Benvolio dropped into his chair, she nearly hung up on them, but he shook his head and forced a smile, as if she could just ignore the fresh tears on his cheeks.

 _Okay?_ she mouthed.

He shrugged and mouthed back, _Nothing new._

She reached up without thinking, smoothing her fingers over the overworked hair at his temple. Her thumb landed beside his ear, gliding over the scruff that was quickly becoming unruly. His eyes went wide and she froze, caught up in questions spinning through puzzles of blue and green.

 _“Rosaline.”_ Her name, sharp and annoyed, yanked her back across the ocean. “I asked you when Juliet will be discharged.”

“I don’t know.” She pulled her hand into her lap, scrubbing her fingers on her leggings. “You can call the hospital if you want, but they probably don’t know either.”

“Alright,” her uncle said instead of arguing as she expected, “I’ll call them from the tarmac. We should land in Padua by tomorrow morning. Send me her room number, and we’ll have the staff send along some things from the house.”

“Okay.” She bit her lip, watching the clock tick its familiar, staggered rhythm. “If she wakes up again, I’ll have her FaceTime you.”

His sigh was heavy, almost pained, as if every mile that separated them had just settled onto his shoulders. “Thank you, Rosaline,” he murmured, voice brimming with so much gratitude that it came dangerously close to affection.

Her fingers stilled on her leg, stinging faintly from the scrape of fabric. She opened her mouth, searching for words as unfamiliar as the ones he’d offered.

Uncle Silv found his voice before she did, but his gratitude had given way to something far less kind. “I told Juliet that boy was trouble. Reckless and thoughtless, like every Montague."

"If God is good," spit her aunt, "this is the end of that mistake, one way or another.”

The tick in Benvolio's jaw jumped. His fists clenched so tightly that they shook. He jerked around to stare at the wall, trying to pretend he hadn’t overheard.

But her cousin was safe and his wasn’t, and Rosaline couldn’t find it in her to pretend. “This whole mess is _your_ fault.”

“My fault?” her uncle spluttered, while his wife echoed her indignation. “How dare—”

But Rosaline was done with their conditional approval. Juliet’s worst fear echoed in her ears, frantic and garbled as she fell towards oblivion:  _What if I killed him, Rose?_

“If respected your daughter’s choices instead of treating her like a misbehaving child, she wouldn't have been so afraid to tell you the truth. She and her boyfriend would be tucked safe in their cabin, and none of this would have happened.” Silence rang in her ear, sharper than a scream. Her voice was quiet too, imbued with every ounce of anger rattling through her. “You’d better come to terms with that before you get here. Because Romeo Montague isn’t going anywhere.”

 

* * *

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/37384003914/in/album-72157690093287316/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/154699043@N07/24240884978/in/album-72157690093287316/)

 

* * *

 

Rosaline stepped back into the waiting room, feeling somehow twice as grimy after freshening up in the bathroom. Slipping her sleeve over her hand, she scrubbed at a damp patch she'd missed on her neck, grimacing as moisture seeped through the fabric. She was halfway across the waiting room before she realized it was empty.

Not _empty._ Families clustered in corners and lonely lovers littered the room, hunched over chairs or standing stiffly, waiting for nurses with news. But the only face that mattered was missing.

“Excuse me.”

The little family who’d settled into their seats looked up, hopeful. Their expressions fell when they saw her, frazzled, scrub-free, and still wearing yesterday’s clothes.

“The guy sitting there,” she said, pointing to Benvolio's chair. “Did you see where he went?”

They hadn’t, but the man sitting across from them had. He pointed her down the corridor that led to the cafeteria. She followed the hall until it ended in a T, then veered left, the way she and Benvolio had gone that afternoon to pick at overpriced salads and tasteless sandwiches.

An angry voice caught her ear, and she faltered, trying to place it.  

“—anything useful from these incompetents?”

“I told you,” said Benvolio, sounding somehow sharp and dull at once, “he’s not out of recovery. They'll keep us posted, but until he stabilizes, we can’t see him.”

The other man’s voice became sharp, rough, like gravel under bare feet. “Did you even try, Benvolio? What have you been doing all day, comforting his grieving fiancée?”

And that was all the introduction Damiano Montague needed. She plowed around the corner and marched straight down the hall.

“If you’ve been hiding a medical degree all these years, go and ask them yourself,” Benvolio snapped. “Otherwise, you’ll get the same useless answers I’ve been getting all day.”

Damiano opened his mouth to retort, then caught sight of her over his nephew's shoulder. The way his eyes swept over her made Rosaline feel . . . not dirty, precisely, but tainted all the same.

“I forgot,” he said, voice dripping disdain, “you’ve been comforting the _cousin.”_

Benvolio braced as if from a blow, and _that_ she couldn’t stand for. Because he was right. Benvolio was the only reason she’d survived this hellish day, and she refused to sit by and let his uncle drag that through the mud.

She stomped up to them, teeth gritting behind a smile that wouldn't have fooled a two-year-old. "Mr. Montague. You finally made it.”

Benvolio jerked around, chasing her voice. His eyes filled with a strange mixture of relief and dread when she stopped squarely at his elbow, fingers curled into a fist to fight the urge to claim his hand. A united front was all well and good, but his uncle's words rebounded off the indifferent gray walls, mocking: _Comforting the cousin._

Damiano recovered his composure, lips pulling sideways into an expression that resembled a smile about as much as hers did. “Yes. Our jet had some mechanical difficulties, but I managed to procure a new one.”

Rosaline nodded, putting on a commiserating expression. “That’s too bad. You've missed a lot.”

Benvolio groaned low in his throat. His uncle looked at her shrewdly.

“Yes, I’ve heard.” The look he turned on his nephew made it clear that he either didn’t know or didn’t care how obvious it was who would shoulder the blame, whatever happened to Romeo. “But Benvolio doesn’t seem to know much more than that.”

“Maybe you should try talking to the doctors. They're used to explaining things; they might be able to speak on your level.” 

It was a petty insult, but she got a rush of satisfaction as it sank in, souring his expression. Mr. Montague was clearly fighting the urge to call her childish, knowing it would do him no favors. She turned to Benvolio, intending to apologize for ditching him, but the tumult in his eyes churned and caught her up, eroding her carefully crafted calm.

"He's in recovery," he said before she could ask, retreating a step so his uncle wouldn't overhear. "That's all we know."

She mirrored his movements. "They won't let you see him?"

He shook his head. "Tomorrow. Maybe the next day. Whenever—" He broke off, swallowing the word  _if._ "Whenever he stabilizes."

Her palm itched for his, to offer the comfort he so clearly needed. She flexed her fist, working away the numbness, skin tingling as the blood came rushing in. Her fingers found the rough pad of his palm, but before they could catch Damiano cleared his throat and they fell away. 

“Benvolio,” he said, his voice strangely subdued, “it’s been a long day. You should get some rest.”

Benvolio bristled. “I'm not leaving.”

His uncle put a hand on his shoulder in some bizarre facsimile of familial affection. Benvolio tensed, but didn't shrug it off.

“You’re tired," said his uncle, almost reasonably. "You haven’t slept, and unless you lied, those unqualified quacks aren't going to tell us anything useful tonight. I’ll stay with Romeo.” He squeezed his nephew's shoulder, then released him, digging into his pocket for his keys. He flipped through them one by one, keys jangling faintly, until he found the one he wanted and twisted it off the ring.

“This is for the cabin.” He pressed it into Benvolio’s hand. “Take the Capulet girl with you.”

Benvolio's fist closed around the key. His other hand wrapped around his knuckles, kneading them like he was preparing to punch. “I'm not leaving Romeo.” 

“Of course not,” Damiano said brusquely. “I need you here in the morning, and you'll be worth shit unless you get some sleep. The best thing you can do for Romeo—for this family—is to leave now _.”_

He stepped back, then paused to add, “I’ll call you if anything changes.”

Turning on his heel, Damiano Montague strode away, shoulders squared as if he was already yelling at nurses in his head. Benvolio clenched his teeth, exhaling angrily through his nose. She let out a breath too, colored with relief. That man was everything his son wasn't, and _Benvolio's biggest critic_ clearly topped the list. No wonder he'd followed his cousin to the frat.

When Benvolio turned to look at her, something akin to wonder touched the edge of his expression, like his uncle acting like a human being for half a second was somehow her doing. She crossed her arms, uncomfortable with the look in his eyes.

"Your uncle's right." The words felt sour in her mouth. “You need sleep, Benvolio. You’ve been up since 3 am.”

“And you haven’t slept at all." 

That wasn’t what she'd meant, but he nodded resolutely and headed for the elevator, so she held her tongue. She moved to follow, but suddenly it felt like she was hooked to Juliet's IV, and every step tugged a needle in her arm.

It was stupid to want to stay. Juliet was out of the woods, resting, if not comfortably. And it wouldn't do Benvolio any good to doze in a chair, waiting for news that never came. Black circles had dug trenches beneath his eyes, and his movements were oddly delayed, like a movie played on three-quarters speed. Her eyes felt gritty, her boots lined with lead, and just the thought of taking a shower make her feel more human. But her feet refused to move.

Benvolio's hand cupped her elbow. She hadn't realized he'd circled back.

“Come on, Capulet. The sooner we leave, the sooner we’ll be back.” His voice rasped in her ear, low and weary, as if he'd used the last of his energy arguing with his uncle. "I'm not going to let you ditch me now." 

The elevator doors dinged. He prodded her forward, and all of a sudden she could walk again. She stepped inside quickly, and his hand fell from her arm.

"As if you'd make it without me," she said, but the truth of it echoed inside her head:  _'As if I'd make it without you.'_

 

* * *

 

“Not up to your standards?” 

The question was more tired than wry. Benvolio trudged up each stair like it was its own insurmountable obstacle. Rosaline leaned against the siding, wondering if she could muster the energy to move. The front porch was oddly welcoming with its bench swing and the wooden ‘M’ hanging on the door.

“It’s smaller than I expected," she admitted. "Isn’t opulence your uncle's M.O.?”

He pushed open the door, stepping aside to let her inside. The cabin was roomy, if somewhat quaint, with nooks instead of rooms and a handful of doors to one side. A light was on in the corner; she looked away, flicking on lights until it was just another part of the room.

“It was my grandparents'. My Mom's parents,” he clarified, and she blinked. She'd never really thought about the fact that he had family not named 'Montague.' “She inherited it before I was born and— Technically it’s mine, I guess, but nobody ever comes here except Romeo.” He jerked a shrug, trying and failing to muster a smile. “It's better than a hotel.”

A bottle of champagne sat open in the breakfast nook, its contents gone flat. Striding across the room, she corked it with shaking hands. She dumped the glasses down the sink before they could attract flies, running the tap to rinse away the residue.

Pictures lined the walls, climbing in artful clusters to a peaked ceiling. She wandered closer, peering into the smiling eyes of a woman caught shaking her head as two boys capered at her feet. Those matching, mischievous grins weren’t hard to recognize.

A door slammed and Rosaline jumped. She spun around, but her irritation died when she caught the look on Benvolio’s face.

“Romeo and Juliet’s room.” The emotion that clogged his throat leaped across the cabin to invade hers too. He pushed open a second door, but hung back, like he needed her to check that it was safe. “You can sleep in here.”

The room was spacious, understated, with a solid pine bed and a matching chest beneath a painting of what might have been the view outside, lit by sunrise instead of twilight. 

“There should be towels in the master bath,” he said, pointing to the corner where an old-fashioned latch hadn't quite caught the door. “Blankets are in the chest.” He opened it to show her, half closed it, and then tilted it back open to grab a blanket. He lifted a pillow from the bed, then shuffled toward the door, cotton bunched in his fist. "If you need anything else, just . . . dig around." 

“Where are you sleeping?” she asked, strangely reluctant to let him leave. 

His hand jerked, swinging the pillow in the vague direction of the living room. “The couch folds out. Haven't slept on it since I was five, but I'm sure it hasn't changed much.”

He took a step toward the door, and her hand moved without her consent, catching the fringe of his blanket.

He stopped. "Yeah?"

She yanked, and the blanket tumbled free. 

He gaped at her. “Come on, Capulet. There’s literally a stack of blankets right there.”

She pulled it to her sloppily, hand over hand, and folded her arms around it, cradling the fabric to her chest.

“I don’t want the blanket.” Why did her voice sound so hoarse all of a sudden? She swallowed. “I want you to stay.”

Frowning, his eyes fell on the floor. "You want me to sleep on—"

"The  _bed,_ Montague." Dropping the blanket onto the chest, she shot him an expectant look, folding her arms to stop her fingers from shaking. "I don't want to be alone any more than you do, okay? So just . . ." Taking a deep breath, she sacrificed her pride. "Please?" 

"I . . ." He floundered for a second, then two. Jerked a nod. "Sure. Yeah. Of course." 

He crawled in first, toeing off his shoes and shucking his jeans to sleep in his shirt and boxers. She unzipped her boots and tugged off her socks, grateful that she'd worn leggings. When she slipped under the quilt, it felt oddly both warm and cool, his body heat already seeping into the sheets. Falling back against the pillow, she made a show of settling in, shifting the stuffing and half hoping he'd get annoyed and sleep on the couch after all.

“Rosaline?”

“Hmm?”

He didn’t say anything, and she frowned, letting her head fall towards him on the pillow. His arm was raised, holding up the quilt in silent invitation. She could just make out his eyes in the deepening twilight, more green than blue and darker than usual, the telltale challenge in them softened by exhaustion.

Wordlessly, she turned her back to him. He let the blanket fall as she wriggled closer, until she felt his chest, warm and steady against her back. The quilt bunched up between them and she yanked it free, tucking it under her chin as his arm fell across her waist.

“Is this okay?” His breath tickled her hair, and though it was warm, she had to fight a shiver.

She hummed again, quieter than before, and felt it reverberate between her shoulders and into his chest.

“Yeah, Ben," she mumbled, already slipping toward sleep, "'s okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> If comments be the food of fic, write on ;)


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